


The Last Thing He Needs

by Viridis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (partly) Pre-Canon, Angst, BAMF Dorian, Ben-Hassrath antics, Canon Divergence, Captivity, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fear of Kissing, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gore, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, Humor, Interrogation, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Sex, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridis/pseuds/Viridis
Summary: The Iron Bull, haunted by memories of Seheron, has left the Chargers camp for some peace and quiet. So when he runs into a damn Tevinter mage in the woods, it is pretty much the last thing he needs…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salakavala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/gifts).



> This story started as a short pre-Inqusition encounter I wrote about two years ago. I kept on tinkering with it, and eventually I decided to expand it, and here we are. 
> 
> Please take heed of the tags. Especially the first chapter is pretty gloomy with things like PTSD, gore, and captivity, and there's one of those Qunari mage collars. So beware. That said, the story as a whole is *not* as dark as the tags might imply: there will be fluff and humor, as well as overly complicated emotions and quite a bit of sex (which is consensual and takes place after the captivity!). Then again, there will also be heartbreak. Sorry. But I promise you a Happy Ending! :)
> 
> Once again, I must shower my gratitude and affection on my Superior Beta [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan): Thank You for your time and help! You ARE a marvel. <3 Also, Special Thank You and Hooray to [Leszy_z_boru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszy_z_boru) for being helpful, encouraging, and supportive, and to [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) for simply being wonderful. <3\. 
> 
> Finally: I am gifting this work to sweet and oh-so-talented [Salakavala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala) (they rrrock! go read their stuff!) because of this weird subconscious connection the creative parts of our minds apparently shared at one point… (Yep, this is THE fic. You thought I'd never get this posted, didn't you?) ;) <3
> 
> Thank You for reading! Kudos, comments appreciated!

A sparkling net of thunder illuminates the night in the distance. The Iron Bull, who has been keeping a watchful eye on the light show, leans on his axe, and contemplates.

He estimates the battle is taking place about two miles from the trapper's hut he's been camping by. A single mage, it seems, but a powerful one. Definitely a powerful one. He can see a swirling funnel of purple light rising like a tornado and then collapsing, the treetops gleam pale lavender for a moment. This is followed by a red flash of fiery explosion.

Likely a member of some small raiding party or a refugee group, Bull thinks. Or perhaps a lone traveller with bad luck. Whatever the case... he wonders about the style and the force of the spells. There is an unpleasant familiarity to it.

A faint foreboding nags at his gut.

Bull gets up on his feet and straps the heavy axe to his back. Under the circumstances he'd rather not get involved - bad timing if there ever was one - but his instincts are telling him to go and check, so he'd better: whoever the warring parties are, there's a chance the winner will continue in his direction, and he is a firm believer in _see them before they see you_ , hostile or not.

In passing he wonders if the Chargers are admiring the magical fireworks as well, but finds it unlikely; they are situated five miles down the other way, their camp covered by a steep hillside, and, let's face it, they are probably drunk by now. If Krem's assigned Skinner or Dalish for the guard duty they might take note however - and in that case they'll check on Bull, ignoring his specific orders to stay put. They can be a lot of unruly assholes when it comes to their leader's well-being.

Warmed and annoyed by the thought, Bull begins to track towards the thunder and fire - but he barely manages ten steps when it all ceases. He stops and listens. Apart from the steady murmur of the river, the night is silent: the nocturnal birds don't dare to sing yet, nothing moves in the cool darkness. Bull grunts, but decides to press on; he must be extra careful so as not to be spotted now that the battle is over, but he takes comfort in the knowledge that whatever or whomever he'll find, he is still going to be the most dangerous thing in these woods.

Once he reaches the small clearing, he is not so sure anymore.

In the silvery moonlight the meadow looks like a war zone: the trees on the edges are charred and twisted, the tips of tall grass burnt, and the bitter smell of magic and smoke lingers over the area. Bull counts six bodies lying amongst the low, pale flowers -

\- and then, without warning, the shimmering clouds of vegetation are morphing into white sand before his eyes, and for a moment he can almost hear the heavy sighing of the sea and smell the jungle: the sweetness of rotting fruit, the heady mix of orchids and vines. His heart begins to pound violently, and he bends down as the familiar burst of nausea takes over.

 _Not Seheron_ , he tells himself, _this is not Seheron._

What irony. It's been two days since he left the Chargers camp: exceptionally nasty flashbacks, this time triggered by killing a giant in Arlesans (there had been fog and blood, that's all it took) had left him feeling scattered and unbalanced, and although he didn't think he was going to _snap_ \- he hasn't snapped since... that first time - he deemed it best to spend some time in solitude; to meditate a bit, to use all those little tricks the re-educators taught him to clear his head. The images of burning buildings and dead children may never be far away, and there are some wounds time will never heal, but at least nowadays he knows how to deal with that shit.

Solitude has been good. Exactly what he needed. And now he is almost back to his normal state, almost certain he is comfortable being around people again, when this, right here, hits him. Bull shakes his head, and concentrates on his breathing. The darkness will pass, it always does: he just needs a little time, and he prays that he has that. He stands in the shadows, slowly getting a hold of himself, re-focusing on his surroundings.

Trees. Meadow. Moon. His axe, so heavy and firm.

Here, now.

Bull lifts his head and looks around.

There is no movement. The people here are all dead. He glides carefully along the treeline, until he reaches the first body. He kicks it over, and takes a look. A bandit, it seems. Loads of those around, bloody things. The man is badly burnt, and this is not the result of some apprentice throwing fireballs. He checks another body: this one shows signs of electric burns, and the throat is slashed open with a staff blade. Another uncomfortable déjà vu hits Bull. He knows this type of fighting, he knows this type of magic.

Still - there is something different, something here is… wrong. It takes a moment before he realizes what it is: some of the bandits have turned against each other. He knows they belong to the same group, they all have a tiny tattooed symbol on their temple, but he sees a skinny blond boy torn apart by a heavily built bearded man; he sees a tall bandit still covering his face against the attacks of a female comrade collapsed on his chest - in vain, obviously, since her torso has somehow exploded, and ripped his rib cage and throat open in the process.

Bull feels an icy shiver running along his spine. There may be a reasonable explanation for this - there must be some explanation, right? - but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know what it is. Especially because the longer he lingers, the clearer he can sense the weird musty aura surrounding the bodies; beside the normal reek of death, there's a hint of something sweet and stale here he doesn't recognize. It makes him uneasy. Itchy.

_Fucking magic crap._

Bull lets his eye roam, searching for the person who is responsible for most of the destruction, the only one he has any real reason to worry about. There - a bit further away from the other bodies, a pile of clothing, and a staff next to it. Bull steps closer, very cautiously now. He uses his free hand to grab the staff (black wood with carved snake heads, what else), and throws the thing in the woods, disgusted. Then he pokes the black mound with his boot.

Nothing.

Bull leans down to take a closer look. A delicate sparkle of silver catches his eye, as the decorative swirls and symbols on the man's outfit are revealed, and confirm what he suspected already: a Tevinter mage.

This, _this_ is the last thing he needs. A goddamn Vint - but how could this be? Granted, Tevinters are not that uncommon in this part of Thedas, but finding an altus mage in the woods, all by himself... Makes no sense. Why is he not traveling by the Imperial Highway? Where are his fancy guards and servants, his fucking horse?

For a moment Bull considers he is just seeing things: his mind is clever like that, always speculative and creative. But no matter how many times he closes his eye or pinches himself, the sight won't disappear. He swears, spits on the ground, and pokes the body once more.

A quiet moan.

Bull steps back and raises his axe above his head, ready to strike. The pile moans again. The mage sounds... young. Bull wavers. He uses the tip of his boot to push the cloak aside, his movement the kind one would use when dealing with a venomous snake.

The greater moon is bright, but sharp shadows and a dark mess of hair cover most of the mage's face. Bull can see a closed eye with long lashes and a fine line of a nose. A wide chest is rising and falling in a fast, shallow rhythm.

Bull has absolutely no problem killing an unconscious enemy - for an enemy this is, no matter how young or vulnerable they look - and he knows that the longer he hesitates, the riskier the situation gets. But something is holding him back.

_This is not Seheron._

The Tevinter opens his eyes. A liquid, sparkling iris stares right through Bull, the dilated pupil is trying to focus. ”Drained,” he whispers. Bull bares his teeth. A mage drained out of mana and without his staff is pretty much defenseless, but Bull sees the bodies around them: he sees, and he _remembers_ , and there is no chance in the Void he will consider this man anything but dangerous. The mage seems to notice him then, and looks surprised. Bull is expecting a scream, a plea for mercy.

 _”A Qunari?”_ The man sounds almost hysterical. He lets out a long high pitch cackle that turns into coughing. ”Just my luck, isn't it?” He shakes his head, incredulous. ”Truly, the fate has decided to play a cruel joke on me tonight. After all I've been through, one might have expected… ah, well. How silly of me.” He seems to drift away for a moment. Then he blinks, and looks straight at Bull again. ”Still, if I am to die by your hand, as a Tevinter citizen I must admit this is a rather traditional way to go.”

Bull resists the urge to roll his eye. What a... pompous ass.

”Come now, you beast. The suspense is killing me faster than you are.” The mage aims for cocky, but it comes out as exhausted more than anything. He hesitates. ”Or - dare I hope that you might find it in your heart to just walk away and forget about this? Apart from the bitter history between our nations, there is no personal issue here and - ”

”A mouthy one,” Bull cuts him off. He contemplates for a short moment. His first instinctual reaction to simply kill the man now suppressed leaves him with two options: either leave the mage here, or drag him to the camp.

Leaving the mage would be stupid. Not to mention cruel, because he is defenseless and possibly injured, and even if the bandits are dead, there are things with sharp teeth in these woods. Not to mention, it's cold and likely going to rain again, so hypothermia alone…. Bull rubs his face. No - the best course of action is surely to go with the standard procedure he would use with any potentially hostile target, given the chance: render them harmless, bring them for questioning, find out who, from where, why, and whether they have any intel worth his time. After all, an altus is always an altus, might turn out to be valuable. 

Besides, routines are good, routines are calming. He needs calming. And frankly, he is more than a little curious.

Bull attaches the axe back in his belt, and pulls the mage up to his feet. The man squeaks and makes a feeble attempt to fight, but he’s severely weakened and nowhere near Qunari-size, so Bull has no problem restraining him. He is quite a bit taller and heavier than Bull anticipated, though. And he smells of sandalwood. Other things too, more pungent and much less sophisticated, but there it is, very faint; more like a memory of a scent.

It is obvious the mage is not capable of walking. Were he a meaner man, Bull would consider simply grabbing his ankle and dragging him through the woods, but that is a messy and painful way, no matter how tempting, and Bull has no particular reason to cause pain. Besides, from the man's troubled breathing he can tell he is hurt already.

Bull grunts and throws the gasping mage across his own wide shoulders, holding his legs with one hand and the wrists with the other, basically looping him around his neck. He takes care not to touch any bare skin.

”If I hear one fucking word, if there is any instigation you are about to use magic, I will punch my fist through your skull. Are we clear?”

The man nods, speechless. Bull takes a deep breath and heads towards the trees, hoping the mage won't throw up on him; when drained, they tend to get nauseous, and being carried is not helping. He remembers Dalish puking on his good boots once when she'd gotten too carried away with her 'arching' abilities.

It is dark under the trees. The moonlight barely penetrates the thick canopy of leaves, here and there needle sharp stars twinkle through. Still, Bull has no trouble finding his way, even if he has only one eye: he walks with a soft, steady stride, minding his bad knee as he goes. The mage is warm and stiff on his shoulders, and carrying him is easy enough. Bull glances at his face, inches away from his own. It is impossible to make out the features, but he can see an odd star reflecting in the glossy eyes.

It doesn't take long for them to reach the river and the trapper's hut Bull has taken over. He slams the frail door open, bows his head, and steps inside in the dim, orange glow.

Whoever this hut belongs to has not been here in ages. Apart from Bull's knapsack and bedroll there are no supplies nor furniture, but it is still a shelter with a dry dirt floor, standing walls, and even a cracked slab for fire. It smells of old timber and tar; Bull has left the shutters open to air the space, but it doesn't seem to make much difference.

He puts his shivering burden down, reaches for his knapsack, and pulls out a long coil of soft rope.

”Kinky,” the mage mutters. Bull gives him a hard glance.

”Did I say you can talk?” 

The way the young man rolls his eyes in response almost gets him hogtied, but in the end Bull doesn’t want to make the process too degrading (or freak him out with any sexual innuendos, even if he did go there first), so he binds the mage’s wrists in front of him with nice, smooth double column ties, then pulls the rope down to his ankles, and ties them up as well, making sure not to make it too tight. 

Tevinter wiggles his fingers and stretches a bit, trying the durability of the knots. He doesn’t seem too alarmed; on the contrary, there is a tiniest hint of a condescending smile pulling the side of his mouth - he’s probably thinking how nicely those ropes will burn once his magic comes back. Unfortunately for him, there are ways to ensure that they won’t. Bull returns to his sack. He digs around for a while until he finds what he is looking for: a thin strip of metal and leather, a collar rather, with glowing letters. The mage’s eyes go wide, and he tries to back away, his feet kicking uselessly at the dusty floor.

”Oh, no - this is not necessary, I assure you - ”

Bull reaches for him, and unceremoniously snaps the collar in place; the mage collapses on his side and gags. Bull pulls out an old towel, just in case, but thankfully Tevinter seems to get a hold of himself and doesn't throw up. He does spit though, and as he sits back up, there are tears in his eyes. ”...and here I thought my evening couldn’t possibly get any better.”

Bull bites his lip. As it is, he is not a cruel man - but he is a very practical one, and he knows that right now caution must trump any sympathy he might be feeling: the collars, no matter how distasteful, are sometimes necessary. Yet, it's hard not to feel a sting of guilt. Or not to remember what Dalish told him after trying one on as a dare: _damn thing feels like your soul has gone blind._

But then, this is not Dalish. This is not anyone he cares about. This is bas saarebas: a dangerous thing, and it has killed six men. That will be enough.

The fire is dying. Bull pokes the sparkling coals and adds some wood he has piled nearby; the room lights up, getting immediately larger and warmer. Then he sits down in a spot where he can get a clear view of both the door and the window, turns his attention back to his captive, and begins to study him carefully.

The mage is… well. First of all, he is, indeed, young; in his late twenties probably, a boy still as far as Bull is concerned. And he might be a pretty decent-looking guy if he had the chance to wash himself and shave; he has the kind of aristocratic profile one sees on old statues, wide silver eyes that stand out nice and pale against his brown skin, and thick ebony hair that is just as messed up as his facial hair. He’s wearing a pretty standard altus style traveling gear; practical but needlessly decorative - according to Bull’s experience, upper class Vints won’t wear anything that isn’t embroidered with snakes, dragons, or creepy runes.

The mage, annoyed by the quiet inspection, lifts his chin. He’s trying to look dignified and defiant, but it's easy to see that there is softness in him under all that arrogance. He is young, after all, and probably sheltered. He’s going to be easy to crack.

Bull stops himself right there. There's no reason to get overly Ben-Hassrath on the boy's ass, surely - especially because he recognizes that he, himself, is in a touchy state right now, and might easily overreact. Besides, he prefers kindness whenever possible; it's slower, but it gets more honest answers, and leaves a better taste in his mouth. So Bull leans back, purposely mirroring Tevinter's position, and keeps the open, pleasant expression on his face. He finds it works well for him in most situations - if nothing else, combined with his intimidating looks it's very confusing.

”I regret about the collar,” he says softly. ”But under the circumstances I am sure you understand.” The mage stretches his neck, bothered by the device.

”And - what circumstances are those?”

”The circumstances where I find a stranger in the woods surrounded by mutilated corpses.”

”Ah. I suppose I see your point.” The man blinks; Bull blinks back at him, smiles. They are talking, that's good.

”Are you thirsty?”

”No.”

”Come on.” Bull reaches for his flagon. ”You need fluids, I can tell.”

The mage makes a face, but after a short coaxing agrees to take a couple of swigs. As he does, his hazy eyes linger for just a moment too long on Bull's bare chest. Bull covers a grin. _Oh,_ he thinks, and congratulates himself, because his job just got a whole lot easier. He puts the flagon away, and flexes his muscles a bit while doing so. Then he rests his hands on his knees, making sure the young man can see how goddamn big and strong they are. He begins to rub a slow, purposeful circle on the side of his knee.

”I am the Iron Bull,” he says in a light voice. He is not - but it is the name he has taken and found useful, and he is willing to give something to get something. The mage, who has unsurprisingly found the sight of Bull's hands quite fascinating, lifts his gaze, and his expression changes a bit.

”A Tal-Vashoth, then.”

”Sure,” Bull says. ”Who are you?”

The mage hesitates: ”Call me Dorian, if you must.”

”Do you have a family name, Dorian?”

”That, I think, is none of your business.”

Bull's eye narrows. Alright. The Vint is a bit too sure of himself, time to make him uncomfortable: ”Where are you injured?” Dorian clearly has another snarky comment coming up, but he swallows it.

”My side. It's nothing worth mentioning.”

”Let me see.”

Bull moves right next to him, pushes promptly aside the soiled cloak, and starts unbuckling the short heavy robes underneath; Dorian flinches, but doesn't try to get away - there is no point really. Bull opens up the clothing carefully, without touching the skin, and takes a look.

The first thing Bull notices is a fancy amulet around the mage’s neck. The second thing, that pretty much grabs the attention off the first thing, is the surprisingly athletic built of his torso.

According to Bull's experience, Tevinter mages, though powerful, tend to be physically feeble; they are not big people to begin with (to be fair, from Bull's point of view no human is 'big people'), and the altus class, who rely on their minds above anything else, sees no point in training their body beyond reaching a pleasing form. Their tendency to be ridiculously inbred doesn't really help either. Dorian though… Dorian looks strong. Genuinely strong. And judging by his handiwork on the bandits, he is well-trained with the staff blade. That's pretty damn physical. Still, he is not honed in so many real battles; were that the case, there'd be more scars. And there really are no scars. Bull almost snorts at the ridiculous, innocent smoothness the mage's chest. The skin practically glows in the firelight, and Bull is reminded of a butterfly he once saw in Rivain, a pretty copper-colored thing, its wings sparkling with metallic sheen.

Bull shakes his head, and tries to concentrate. The injury. Yes. There is indeed a dark bruise on the left side, about the size of the mage's palm.

”That's a handsome bruise,” Bull remarks. ”But you're not going to get any manly scars here, so don't get your hopes up. How's breathing?” Dorian gives him a long-suffering side glance.

”Hurts. But not too bad.”

”I don't think anything's broken. You'll live.” He adds, for the effect: ”For now.”

Bull returns his attention to the amulet hanging from Dorian's neck. He knows it is a birthright, a proof of the person belonging to a noble Tevinter house. Curious, he lets his finger trace the two snakes curling on the top; the bottom part reminds him of a peacock tail with colorful stones. He picks the amulet up with the tip of his dulled claws, and flips it over.

The disk, heated by Dorian's skin, feels intimately warm in his hand. There's some kind of writing carved on the smooth surface. As it happens, Bull is pretty fluent in Tevene, but this is Ancient Tongue, and not many can speak or read it; he suspects it is some kind of a family motto. Under it stands a single word.

”Pavus,” Bull pronounces. He looks up at Dorian. ”Dorian Pavus.”

The mage closes his eyes, defeated. Bull hums. He keeps thumbing the amulet and considers. He could… he _should_ take it. There are operators who could use something like this, his superiors would be pleased. But somehow he dislikes the idea. Perhaps he'll let the boy keep the trinket for now; he can always change his mind later. Better to concentrate on building trust.

Bull lets go of the birthright, vaguely disappointed with himself, and feels Dorian relax with voiceless sigh of relief. He fastens the buckles again, covers the mage with the cloak, and returns to his spot. Dorian looks genuinely surprised. Bull takes note. ”What? Thought I'd ravish you?” The mage sniffs.

”You'd be surprised by the number of people who wish to ravish me.”

”Is that so?”

”Have you seen me?” Dorian falls quiet abruptly, probably remembering his disheveled state. ”Well. Just take my word for it.”

“I’m sure you look perfectly nice when you’re clean,” Bull offers sympathetically. Dorian sniffs again, sharper this time, and gives him an offended look. Bull leans casually on his side, propping his impressive bulk against his elbow. He knows he is hard to ignore, and sure enough, Dorian's eyes return to inspect his huge scar-covered body, eyepatch, and pointy horns with reluctant curiosity. Bull tilts his head.

”Haven't met many Qunari, have you, little mage?” he asks, and smirks openly. He is quite used to people staring and wondering, and finds it amusing every time. Dorian’s eyes narrow.

”I am hardly little!” he snaps. Bull arches his eyebrow.

”Okay... Big Guy.”

”Of course, compared to unnaturally bulky behemoths -”

”Careful there. Your mouth is getting ahead of your brain.”

Dorian bites his lip, like telling himself to shut up. It is not a bad advice, considering Bull could crush him like a bug. ”I've seen Qunari,” Dorian mumbles finally. ”Never one as big as you, though. This Vashoth bodyguard I saw in Minrathous was almost your size, but you are wider, and your horns are… bigger.” Bull tilts his head, smugly. He _does_ have fabulous horns. The mage notices his improved mood and leans forward. His face softens, his voice, pleasant to begin with, turns to velvet: ”May I ask you something, the Iron Bull?”

It's not a bad attempt; he looks quite endearing, and he even got the article right. Bull nods magnanimously. ”Go ahead, Dorian.”

”Why are you doing this?”

Bull frowns. ”You are a Tevinter mage.”

”Quite, I can see how that would work against me, but - not all of us are monsters. And as it is, I am not interested in fighting you.”

”Yeah, see, my first hand experience says otherwise.”

Dorian thinks about this. ”Seheron?” 

Bull nods. ”Seheron.” He tastes the bitterness the word brings onto his tongue, the sudden tightness in his gut, but manages to center himself quickly. ”Look, I'm willing to admit there is a chance I am wrong here; you may turn out to be a perfectly decent guy.” He shrugs. ”But then I'd rather be wrong than dead.” A thin, unexpected smile flickers over Dorian’s face - but it vanishes as soon as it appears.

 _”A decent guy,”_ he mutters under his breath, but he is not addressing his words to Bull, so Bull doesn’t ask. Should he hazard a guess though, it sounds like Dorian Pavus might not be exactly famous for his virtue. 

Bull pokes the fire again. He glances out the window he has partly closed with shutters already, and lifts his head to breathe in the wisps of cool air drifting inside. The rain is coming soon. He can smell it.

”If you are hoping for a ransom, I'm telling you right now that won't happen,” Dorian says suddenly. He sounds small. ”I would rather die than go back.” Bull hums softly.

”I see.” 

A runaway. Either the boy has committed a crime, or he has some other reason to stay away; whatever it is, it's dire enough to drive him out in the wilderness all by himself. ”I wonder what you did,” Bull says out loud.

”I have left my country for personal reasons, and that's all you need to know.”

”Too many sacrificed virgins? Unauthorized slave trade? Poisoning the wrong cousin?”

”Oh, you got me there! Of course, I also run naked through the Magisterium.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And don't forget about that one time I summoned a Desire demon in the middle of the Archon's name day party!”

”Well excuse me.” Bull is trying not to look too entertained; he may not be a huge fan of sardonic humor, but he finds this verbal jousting pretty darn amusing. Dorian shifts a bit, getting uncomfortable in his bindings perhaps, and gives Bull an exceptionally sour glance. He really does have quite a temper. Bull covers a smile. “And is that a bad thing?”

“What?”

“Summoning a demon at a party? I thought you guys do it all the time.”

“Well - “ Dorian frowns. “Well, yes, I suppose we do.”

They fall silent. Bull studies the fluttering flames deep in thought. The burning wood is crackling and popping softly, warming his sore knee oh-so-pleasantly, and soon he is feeling himself getting dangerously at ease - but he really can’t have that, not yet. So he hardens his mind, and turns his attention back to Dorian.

“Those bandits,” he says. Dorian, who has also been staring at the fire, lifts his tired eyes to Bull. 

“What about them?”

“What happened?”

The mage's brows knit. ”What happened? The fools attacked me, and now they are dead.”

He sounds nonchalant, but Bull is not buying it. Dorian is not military. He is not crazy. He doesn't seem evil; just snotty and prickly. And even if he were the type of Vint who does dueling - pretty much a national sport among the altus mages - or the type of Vint who poisons other Vints - basically all of them - slaughtering six people in close combat, two of them females, is not something most people can walk away from without getting a bit shaky. Dorian is affected, certainly. He's just a decent pretender when he puts his mind to it. Any altus needs to be, if they wish to survive the Imperial court.

”And why did they attack each other?” Bull asks. ”That some blood magic trick?”

”I don't do blood magic.” The way Dorian says it, the way his voice nearly trembles with what could be disgust, makes Bull believe him immediately.

”So what was it, then?”

Dorian grimaces, a sudden flash of white. ”They attacked each other because I told them to.” He lowers his voice for the dramatic effect: ”I am a Necromancer.”

Well of fucking course he is. Bull feels sick to his stomach; by Koslun's horns, he hates that shit. Dorian leans back, clearly enjoying Bull’s reaction. ”In case you don't know, it means that I can control corpses by binding certain type of spirits - ”

”Yes, thank you.” Bull has no problem with corpses; he has seen hundreds, no, thousands, of dead people in various states of decomposing. Death is natural. Animating corpses with spirits, not so much. Dorian tsks.

”You people really don't know how to appreciate magic.”

”You people really don't know how to use proper care and common sense.”

Dorian's face twitches. ”Such as collars, chains and mouths stitched shut?”

Bull opens his mouth to say _whatever keeps the demons at bay_ , but then remembers his cover. He better tone it down a bit. ”That's a Qun thing,” he says out loud. ”I don't do that.” Dorian groans.

”If you don't do that, then what is this accursed thing around my neck?” He looks so offended; he touches his lips with the tip of his tongue, perhaps thinking how it might feel to have them sewn shut. Would be a shame too, he really does have a nice-looking mouth, from what Bull can see under the messy mustache.

”Hey, that's just a precaution. It's not a permanent solution.”

Dorian's angry eyes glimmer icy in the firelight. ”What is the permanent solution here, then? What are you going to do with me?” Bull studies him thoughtfully.

”I don't know yet.” At least it is an honest answer.

”...is there any chance I will survive this?”

”I don't know yet.” Which, in turn, is a lie. But that's what Hissrad does.

***

It is way past midnight, so Bull deems it best to retire. He is feeling beat and sort of hollow, and he wants to rest before making any decisions concerning his captive. He closes the wonky shutters all the way, latches the door, and double checks the knots tying Dorian's wrists and ankles. Were there a column or something in the hut he’d tie the mage to it, but there isn’t, so he can lie where he is. Bull doesn’t like it, but is trying not to feel too paranoid about it; after all there isn’t much chance for Dorian escaping or hurting him. But since he didn't survive Seheron by being careless, he decides to give the Vint a reminder. 

Bull positions himself so that he is looming right above Dorian, threatening and gigantic, and lowers his voice so that it makes the floorboards rumble: ”Know that I am a very light sleeper.” He is: after so many years in the war zone, any sound, any movement, wakes him up immediately. Sometimes it is a blessing, most of the time it is a curse. “You move - I will hear it. You breathe in a wrong way - I will hear it. You try anything…” he leans down, closer, until he knows he fills Dorian’s vision, “you _will_ regret it.”

Dorian stares at him with wide eyes and makes a small choked sound. Bull softens his voice. “Do we have an understanding, Dorian?”

“...yes.”

Bull nods, satisfied, and collapses on his bedroll.

The fire is dying. Soon the room goes totally dark - and then it begins to rain. First slow and steady; then, as the wind rises, harder, in whippy waves. Surprisingly, the roof doesn't seem to be leaking too bad. Bull lies still and listens to the water pattering against the walls, to the trees hissing and creaking outside. Dorian is breathing in a shallow manner nearby. He’s shivering. Bull doesn’t think it’s because he’s cold; he is situated right next to the fireplace after all, and it’s still emitting heat. 

Bull rubs his toes against his bad leg. Weather like this always makes it hurt like a son of a bitch, and he doubts he'll be getting much sleep, no matter how badly he needs it. Not that Dorian will be either. In passing Bull wonders if he was too stern with the mage earlier... but then, what is he supposed to do? They don’t know each other. They are not friendly. Bull covers a groan, and keeps on rubbing his leg.

It is raining even harder now. The drumming sound is so loud Bull can't hear Dorian's breathing anymore, but he can smell a faint scent of salt, and he realizes that Dorian is crying. No wonder, really. He is alone and far away from home; last night he was attacked by bandits, ended up killing six people, and right after he got captured by a huge Qunari who put a collar on him, and can't seem to be able to decide whether to let him live or die.

Bull resists the urge to say something comforting; then he suppresses the sharp guilt that comes from not doing so. He closes his eye and tries to relax. It's hard. He tries breathing exercises and meditation, then reciting some cantos - to no avail. His usual techniques are not working; his mind keeps drifting without focus, he is just too much on edge, too much has happened, there are too many thoughts.

Dammit.

He thinks he is too old for this shit. There used to be the time he could fall asleep anywhere from stony mountain sides to steaming hell holes in thick jungles - and if needed, he could go without sleep, for days. He was trained for that kind of thing, he was trained for all kinds of damned things. And he was _especially_ trained for dealing with people, so that there was no one pretty enough to charm him, clever enough to outsmart him, or sad enough to earn his pity unless he allowed them to. 

Nowadays… well. The thought of a proper mattress is becoming more and more alluring with every passing year. And apparently he is developing a soft spot for young runaways down on their luck - which is downright careless.

Whom is he kidding? Half of his men are runaways down on their luck. 

Annoyed, Bull turns his head a bit and searches for Dorian, but all he can see is the faint purple glow of the collar in the dark. He thinks about the dead bodies in the meadow. He thinks about the prickly tongue and the pompous attitude. He thinks about the soft brown skin and the barely there scent of sandalwood.

A surge of faint lust bites his groin. How very predictable. Bull rolls his eye at himself, doesn't think much of it - but then somewhere from the murky layers of his mind rises a very unpleasant memory of an arvaarad Bull used to know in Seheron. The things the man did to his saarebas... Bull shivers and pushes the image away as soon as it tries to surface, and _then_ he is angry at his mind trying to make such comparisons. Because this situation here is totally different.

Except... that the mage here is wearing a collar, and Bull is controlling him. And although Bull would never, ever, touch the boy, there is no question that he really wouldn't mind.

Bull swears under is breath, and pulls the blanket over his face, like he’s done ever since he was a kid when something was scary or confusing. But then of course the blanket is dusty and thick, and tickles, and he can’t breathe properly. _Vashedan_. He pulls it back down, and changes his position a bit. Then a bit more. He adjusts his neck roll, pulls the blanket off all the way, and then re-wraps himself in it again, only to find that now his position is somehow wrong again, and then he feels he has to sneeze - it’s the damn blanket - so he does, and it sounds like an exceptionally powerful gaatlok cannon going off inside the hut.

 _“Fasta vass!”_ Dorian groans. “You insufferable beast, would you lie still and be quiet!”

“Bossy Vint,” Bull mutters - and although he doesn’t know it yet, not for the last time. Feeling slightly offended he then sulks for a moment, but it’s not really worth it because no one can see, so he gives up and closes his eye. 

The Iron Bull listens to the drumming of the rain until he finally falls asleep in the early hours of the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Koslun's horns, what is Bull to do with this mage?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings for this one. Another sort of gloomy chapter with a hint of humor and sweetness.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH everyone who's been reading, commenting & giving kudos! I truly appreciate it. And Thank Youuu lovelylovely [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) who beta'd again. <3

That Bull wakes up with a hard-on is no surprise. That he wakes up sort of rested, is. 

He blinks in the dim light of the room until his fuzzy vision clears; then he shifts, and adjusts himself surreptitiously in his loose pants. Normally he wouldn’t care, but this morning he decides to lie still and wait for his condition to pass. He studies some long-abandoned cobwebs on the ceiling. Funny little things, spiders. Well except those creepy giant ones they bump into every now and then, nothing funny about those. He thinks about how Stitches likes spiders - the small kind - and collects their webs for his pills and poultices, and is always respectful about it. Good man. 

Damn, but he misses his boys. Bull grimaces and finally sits up. He rubs his neck as he glances to his side - and finds Dorian Pavus staring right at him. The mage looks sharp, but he has dark, puffy circles under his eyes. 

”Got any sleep, Vint?”

”How nice of you to ask,” Dorian pronounces with a bright, sugary voice, and flashes a smile. ”I got plenty, of course. Lying on this floor was like resting on a cloud - there are no words to describe the warmth and comfort I experienced. These ropes and the collar you've so helpfully attached to my persona kept me feeling safe and secure through the night, and had I not known better, I could’ve sworn my limbs were caressed by finest Orlesian silk. The most delightful part, however, must have been your snoring. Never have I ever heard anything so enchanting and melodious: no wonder I dreamed of nothing but songbirds and sunshine.” His smile intensifies to downright dazzling. Bull blinks, impressed.

”...isn't it a little early for sarcasm?”

”Never.”

“You must’ve spent a long time practicing that.”

_“I had all night.”_

Bull frowns, ever so slightly irritated. “Alright. So you were cold and uncomfortable. Was that all?”

“No. You stink.”

“What?”

“You stink. Do all Qunari smell so bad? By Dumat!”

Bull is about to let Dorian know that he doesn’t exactly smell like Nevarran roses either, but then he realizes that the mage is shaking. So instead he simply reaches for him, and wraps him in the still warm blanket. ”Oh, Maker,” Dorian whispers and closes his eyes, as an ecstatic look spreads on his face.

“Yeah,” Bull says. “I hope the stench doesn’t bother you too bad.”

Bull lights the fire and boils water for tea; then he pulls out some bread and dried meat, and feeds Dorian with his fingers. The mage eats up everything he is given, and agrees to drink too; Bull watches as his full lips part, revealing little glimpses of shiny pink tongue and perfect teeth.

Once they are done Dorian begins to squirm, as nature calls.

”Right,” Bull says. He hauls the mage up, and unties the ropes around his ankles. “Can you walk?” Dorian bends down to rub his legs with his still tied hands, and rises to stand on tiptoes for a moment. He takes a couple of tentative steps.

“I - think so, yes.”

After the previous night’s storm, the morning is misty and eerily still. The river is running cool and slow, the gigantic trees by the waterline are standing calm. A couple of birds are chirping nearby. 

Bull takes a moment to enjoy the damp fragrant air; then he leads Dorian towards some thick bushes. The ground under their feet is slippery with wet leaves and broken branches, so he keeps right by the mage, ready to grab his elbow in case he takes a fall.

”I am going to need my hands,” Dorian states as they stop. ”And since you seem like the sort of person who is prone to bad jokes, let it be known that I'd rather pee my pants than let you 'lend me one'.”

”Well that's pretty presumptuous.”

”You were going to suggest it!”

Bull sighs, covering his amusement, and undoes the ties; Dorian's hands rise and go immediately, not to open his pants, but to smooth his hair, re-arranging the disheveled waves. Bull clicks his tongue; Dorian, who definitely notices but doesn't care, shoots a hard side glance at him.

”Do you mind?”

Bull knows humans are more prudish than the Qunari, so he turns his head, and Dorian goes. His urine smells sharp and acidy, which means he hasn’t been drinking enough. Bull makes a mental note to force him to drink more. After he’s done, Bull attaches the rope in a metal link hanging from the collar, but leaves his hands free. Dorian looks confused. ”You won't tie my hands?”

”You _want_ me to?” There’ a certain tone there. Dorian's cheeks get a noticeable pink tinge.

”Maker, no.” He touches the collar carefully. His face twitches as his fingers glide across the glowing runes - not in disgust but rather as if in longing. He thumbs the lock too, and Bull lets him, because there’s no way for him to get it open. 

“Alright,” Bull says. “Let’s head back in.”

They are just stepping across the threshold, when a sudden loud noise startles them. Bull realizes almost immediately that the racket is caused by a half-rotten tree branch falling off a nearby oak which hasn't weathered the last night's storm too well - but his body, always prepared for the worst, has reacted already: he has shoved Dorian behind himself, shielding him now with his bulk.

A couple of seconds pass. Bull rubs his nose, slightly embarrassed, and turns to face Dorian, who is staring at him with wide, incredulous eyes. 

”Really?” Dorian says.

”Let's go,” Bull grunts.

They retreat back inside. First thing Bull makes Dorian drink some more water; then he pulls out his axe and begins the daily routine of sharpening and oiling it, a chore he always finds calming and meditative. His maimed fingers glide along the edge to test the blade. He loves this particular axe: he got it made after a hugely prolific job he and his boys did for an Orlesian merchant, and not only is it an excellent weapon, it is _pretty_ ; particularly the shaft decorated with dragon motifs and delicate dawnstone inlays is a work of art.

Dorian, meanwhile, is flexing, which is a thing of beauty on its own; he raises his strong, shapely arms above his head, rolls his shoulders, and as he spreads his fingers, his fancy rings are sparkling. He is also trying to do something about his facial hair, but his mustache remains limp and sad; without wax and proper tools there’s not much to be done about it. Every now and then he glimpses at Bull, probably worried about the weapon.

”You were protecting me,” he says abruptly. Bull keeps on oiling the blade.

”A gut reaction. Don't read too much into it.”

”A gut reaction?” Dorian lets his hands down and tilts his head, definitely reading too much into it. ”If your gut reaction is to shield your enemies...”

Bull covers a sigh. Fine, yes, he is protective - overprotective, that's what his boys say anyway. And no matter what his state of mind, instincts are hard to turn off. For a moment he is feeling sort of annoyed about the whole thing, but then he notices Dorian studying him with intense curiosity, looking so open and receptive, that it occurs to Bull that this might be the perfect time to continue the interrogation.

He shifts a bit, assumes Dorian's position. ”I don’t consider you an enemy, Dorian,” he says in a pleasant voice, and puts a slightly unnerving smile on his face. He is dancing on the line of keeping his captive both a bit intimidated and hopeful. For a moment Dorian seems uncertain; then he scoffs.

“Surely you don’t consider me a friend.”

Bull gives him a kind look. “No.”

“I suppose I should find your honesty refreshing. After Tevinter anyway.” 

_You really shouldn’t_ , Bull thinks. But he keeps on smiling, because the conversation is heading where he wants it. “Speaking of Tevinter… your family must be quite prestigious.”

”You are much smarter than you look. You know all kinds of big words.”

Back to being an ass, then. Bull's expression doesn't change. ”Now, now. If this is the way you start acting when untied...” He adds more oil to his rag. ”Why don’t you tell me a little about your family.”

Dorian looks reluctant. ”Like most magisterial families, I suppose. Rich. Ancient. Full of themselves. Why are you asking?”

”I've been to Tevinter a couple of times,” Bull muses, casually, ignoring the question. ”You look and sound like you might be from the Eastern parts.” Dorian looks surprised.

”My family is from Qarinus.”

”So close to Seheron,” Bull says, almost gently. ”I take it you never went to war, though. Did your father? Your brothers?”

”We are politicians and scholars rather than war heroes. And I regret to say I have no siblings.”

There's something there. ”But you wish you did?” Dorian snorts.

”I dare say my life would have been easier with one or two.”

The lone scion of his house. Feels the pressure and the expectations, has let his family down somehow. A rebellious little thing. Bull puts his axe away and pulls out his large hunting knife. Dorian glances at it, but doesn’t say anything.

”You are pretty brave, travelling all by yourself and off the highway. I take it you are heading to Val Royeaux. Then… overseas, perhaps?”

”Perhaps.” Dorian clears his throat. ”May I have some water, please?”

It’s apparent Dorian doesn’t want to talk about it. Bull could keep on pushing, of course - but the boy is being sweet and polite now, and, well, he’s right: he needs fluids. So Bull offers the flagon, and Dorian drinks. Despite his bedraggled appearance, he somehow manages to look impossibly sensual while doing so, and Bull can't help staring, and Dorian, of course, notices. Once done, he wipes his mouth with a slow purposeful movement - and then there is something different about his demeanor. Something about the line of his parted lips, the calculative glimmer of his eyes.

 _He has tried defiant and appealing,_ Bull ponders. This time it will be something else.

Sure enough:

”The Iron Bull.”

Bull looks as Dorian curls up in a graceful, theatrical position, like a cat; it is quite incredible how at ease he is looking right now. The faint sandalwood scent lingering around him seems to intensify, as if his skin is heating up. Bull takes a slow inhale. ”Yes, Dorian?”

”If I sleep with you, will you let me go?”

Bull's shoulders rise and his pale eye narrows. _Well_. Not surprising, not anything that hasn't been proposed to him before: he can't even count the times people he's been ordered to hunt down have offered him their body in order to get away. He doesn't find it offensive, exactly, but it is always a bit disappointing.

”I understand you don't need my _offer_ here,” Dorian adds softly, ”as it is, you can do to me whatever you want. However,” he gives Bull a knowing smile, ”I could make the experience extremely... nice.” Bull cocks his head.

”What is this? A Tevinter altus would whore himself for a Qunari?”

”It is not below me,” Dorian says. He's calm, but his eyes look dark and too shiny. ”I've done worse.”

”Have you now.” Bull studies his face. ”You sure you could handle that though? Would be pretty different from being fucked by a flaccid elderly magister in the broom closet, or forcing yourself on a slave.”

”I have never touched a slave,” Dorian hisses. He sounds so genuinely offended it gives Bull a pause. Dorian, apparently realizing he slipped, gets a hold of himself, and forces an indifferent expression on his face again. ”I could absolutely handle that.” He makes an airy, carefree gesture with his hand, as if they were equals, negotiating some business deal. ”My offer stands.”

Bull shakes his head, tries to look kind. ”Sorry, Vint. Not interested.”

Dorian wavers; his face goes from confused to offended, and finally relieved. His shoulders collapse. He studies Bull's face, as if seeing him for the first time. ”You have no idea what you're going to do with me, do you?”

”Oh, I have ideas.”

”Then perhaps you should pick one. We aren't really getting anywhere here, are we?”

The thing is… Dorian is right. Bull must decide. He's got places to be, people to meet. Bull turns his gaze into the fire and thinks about his options.

His superiors would advise him to either ship the mage to Par Vollen or finish him off. Depending how valuable Bull deems him. Par Vollen is hardly worth it, in the light of what Bull has learned; Dorian is not a military person, nor a spy or a politician. His family sounds important, true, but they are at odds. Besides, Bull dislikes the idea of the rest of Ben-Hassrath having their claws on the boy. They would not be gentle, and as a result Dorian would end up dead anyway: a captured mage is deemed corrupted and untrainable, as far as the Qun is concerned.

To finish him… would be easy. And Bull could absolutely do it gently: he could grab Dorian’s head and neck, just so, and _snap_. Over before you know it. Bull has no idea how many men he's killed that way, but it is many, in Seheron alone. Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending - he is quite used to making independent decisions by now, and as it it, Dorian hasn't done anything offensive. Sure, the boy is Tevinter. And sure, he is dangerous. But being Tevinter is not an unredeemable sin in Bull’s book nowadays, and as for danger… Admittedly, there is a chance Dorian might turn on him (who could blame him?), but _might_ is not the same as certainty. 

_Even a potential threat, when considered severe enough, should be eliminated_. He was taught that. He’s been teaching that to recruits. And yes, it makes sense in the warzone, but this is not a warzone, is it? And then there's the tiny little problem that... he likes Dorian. The mage is a touchy, witty asshole with too much bravado and a terrible self-esteem, and Bull fucking likes him.

Bull closes his eye. Should it matter? How many men has he killed he could have liked? How many men has he killed he _did_ like? He taps his leg brace with his claws. _Not Seheron._

He can hear Dorian mumbling in his own language; some swearing, some name calling, some words of self pity and comfort. Bull grunts: ”I speak Tevene, you know.” The mage sighs.

”Of course you do.” 

 

***

 

”How did you lose your eye?”

Bull gives Dorian a lazy glance. “You’re awake finally?” After their lunch, Tevinter curled up into a nice tight bundle, and fell promptly asleep; he slept heavily, as if he hadn’t had a chance to sleep in a safe place for a long, long time, and he didn’t snore, but he made these little sounds that under different circumstances would’ve been darn cute. And now he is peeking at Bull from under the blanket with wide dark eyes.

“No, I am talking in my sleep,” Dorian says.

“Nobody likes a smartass.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I consider myself rather entertaining.” Dorian sits up, and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. Bull probably should’ve taken it back, but he hasn’t - nor has he made up his mind about Dorian’s fate. He doesn’t know why. It’s fucking annoying. Just as annoying as the fact that he doesn’t feel like continuing the interrogation either. Call it an instinct, but the more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced there’s something dark, something so-none-of-his-business there he’d rather not deal with it. Probably something demony.

“You slept all day,” Bull notes. Dorian shrugs.

“So?” He studies Bull’s face. “Are you going to tell me about the eye?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but got hit by a flail while saving one of your country men.”

”Excuse me?”

”He became my second in command,” Bull continues. ”I run a mercenary company.”

”You have a mercenary company.” Dorian sounds perplexed, but he shouldn't be; many Tal-Vashoth work as mercenaries, nothing strange there.

”Yep.”

”And your second in command is from Tevinter.”

”Yep.”

”...you must like him, then.”

Bull grins, can't help it. ”A lot.” It is an understatement, of course: as far as Bull is concerned, Krem is pretty much the best thing that ever happened to him. Probably the worst too. He spares a warm, longing thought for his Chargers, and wonders what they are up to. (He shouldn't get attached, he knows, but then again how could he not? His boys are the best.)

They stay quiet for a long time; the fire is burning down, the room is getting darker. Dorian raises his eyes. ”Why did you leave the Qun?” Bull frowns. Dorian waits; when there is no answer, he speaks again, softer. ”Was it about Seheron being so bad? You're a deserter?”

”It was bad,” Bull says. Dorian nods, and then he looks sympathetic, sad, and touches his own knee with a sort of a comforting gesture; and although he does it to himself, it's addressed to _Bull_ \- and it's that small empathetic careless thing he does, that finally cements the decision in Bull's mind. Or rather, it makes him face the decision he has made a long time ago.

With a defeated sigh, Bull reaches for Dorian's collar; the mage startles and tries to pull away, but Bull takes a good grip on his shoulder with his other hand, and clicks the simple mechanism. The device falls off and slides on Dorian's lap. Bull picks it up, folds it in two, and puts it back in his knapsack.

Dorian is breathing hard, like he hasn't been properly able to for a while, rubbing his throat. His eyes are wild and suspicious. Bull turns to him, looking as menacing as he can. ”Here's how it's going to be: I will go back to my men. You will go back to burning bandits, or whatever it is you do. You will not come after me, and in return I won't snap you in half. Get it?” Dorian nods, speechless. Bull hesitates. ”That said... it is dark and wet outside, so I suggest you stay the night.”

Dorian stumbles up on his feet, rearranges the cloak on his shoulders, and pulls the hood over his head. Then he gives Bull a look, stern and bright, and Bull can read it, alright: _we are on the level ground now, and if I wanted to, I could probably kill you._

Bull forces himself to stay relaxed. He is pretty sure he is not in danger, not really; he has managed to create some kind of connection, and Dorian, bless him, is soft and kind-hearted, no matter what he tries to pretend.

”You didn't happen to see my staff, did you?” Dorian asks. Bull shrugs.

”It is somewhere by the meadow where you took down those bandits. I threw it in the woods.”

”Ah.” Dorian makes a face.

”Do you have supplies? Tent? Blanket? Food?”

”I dropped my things when I was attacked, I figure they are still there. Well wrapped too, so the rain shouldn't have ruined them.” Bull shakes his head.

”That's all good, but seriously, Dorian; you will never find your stuff in this darkness, you don't even know which way to go.”

”I'll find my way.” Dorian arranges his rings, as if that is something one should be doing before dashing into the night. Bull frowns.

”How?”

”I can still sense the Spirits lingering where the bodies lie. And once I get close enough, I'll sense my staff too.” Dorian makes a small gesture with his hand and conjures a glimmering ball of light to show him the way. ”Darkness means nothing to me.”

Bull promptly refuses to think about any spirits lingering nearby. He concentrates on Dorian's face and form instead. The mage is still looking like a mess, but sort of a royal mess now with his noble posture and confident expression, standing there in his expensive cloak. The embroidered silver snakes bordering the edges of the heavy wool fabric twinkle in the firelight. Such a Tevinter-y sight. Bull thinks how he should be freaking out, and how he isn't. Dorian turns to look at him properly.

”Well. I can't honestly say I am pleased to have made your acquaintance, but it's been... interesting.”

”Certainly has.”

Despite Dorian's apparent confidence, Bull feels something akin to worry stirring in his chest. ”Will you be alright?” Dorian snorts.

”Unless another mercenary with a mage collar catches me unconscious, I am pretty sure I will be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”

True enough, Bull supposes. He nods and smiles, genuinely this time. ”Well then. Goodbye, Dorian Pavus.”

”Goodbye, the Iron Bull.”

Dorian turns and takes a few tentative steps, as if still unsure if Bull is really going to let him leave. Then he straightens up, casts a shimmering purple barrier for protection against the rain that has started again, and steps outside.

The hut goes quiet. Apart from the sound of soft rain and crackling fire there is nothing else. Bull stays still for a long time, thinking how everything seems darker somehow, and wonders if Dorian will be coming back after all. He wouldn't mind. Would be kind of nice. When it becomes clear that that won't be happening, Bull picks up the blanket from the floor, and goes to his bedroll. Come morning, he'll pack his stuff and return to his men. It is time to go back to the Chargers, time to see Krem.

The blanket, he realizes, smells like Dorian, and the fact delights and annoys him; he wraps it around himself all the same, and soon enough he feels his eye getting heavy. As he is slipping away, he finds himself thinking of incense and silk.

 

***

 

_#Report from Hissrad_

 

_On the way from Arlesans to Cumberland came across a lone Tevinter altus. Subject found off Imperial Highway, approx. 25 miles North-West of Val Chevin, where subject had encountered a group of bandits (6 casualties, no survivors). Subject lightly injured, appeared drained. Subject brought to temporary camp and interrogated. Identified as Dorian Pavus of Qarinus, had left homeland due to fall out with his family, and was heading to Val Royeaux. Subject found pliant and non-aggressive, definitely civilian, knows nothing of value. Estimated not to be a threat, a person of interest, or useful otherwise. Released._

Bull stares at the paper deep in thought. He's _so_ going to get some shit for this. He squints his eye, and studies the tidy impersonal writing he uses for all his paperwork, displeased. It’s a useless report of a fruitless encounter. Makes him look like a fucking amateur.

Krem pokes his head inside the tent. His hair is a mess; he's probably been sparring with Skinner again. He really should know better. ”You done soon?”

Bull lays his hand on the paper. He hesitates, crumples it into a ball.

”Yeah. I'm done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder where they'll bump into each other next... ;) (Hint: it won't be Redcliffe or Haven)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, take a guess what happens in this chapter... it starts with the letter S!
> 
> Sitting? Shopping? Sparkling? Sassing? 
> 
> Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yes, there will be sex. 
> 
> Thank you, again, to all my readers, and to my grrreat beta [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan)! <3

As shameful as it is to admit, Bull is pretty damn fond of human cities. While the Qunari cities are architecturally superior to anything down here in the South, not to mention run with the efficiency humans can only dream of, there's a certain charm to _bas_ establishments. They are loud, diverse, and unpredictable. They are bursting with wonderful crazy things.

Val Royeaux is one of Bull's particular favorites. The place may be decadent to the point of ridiculousness, and dangerous if you don’t know where to step, but during the last eight years or so it’s become not only an important source of work - the Chargers are well-known and respected here - but also a place of comfort for him. It’s not home, of course, the only true home Bull’s ever known used to be by his Tama, and there’s no going back to that, ever - but Val Royeaux is familiar, and relatively welcoming. And there are things here he likes. 

He likes the local music and those little chocolate pastries sold all over the place. He likes the way evening sun sparkles on the gilded arches and silk banners above the streets. He even likes the people, snotty and devious, as they are enjoyable to look at and eavesdrop on. And today, specifically, he likes the opportunity to be able to relax for a while: to have a decent meal and sleep on a proper mattress. It is damn nice for a change, especially after spending the wet, miserable winter laying low by some backward village where living is cheap, and then working through spring doing some stupid ass missions for rural nobility. 

Bull has led his closest men in one of the local taverns - the rest of the Chargers have set up a camp about a mile away from city walls with the blessing from the city officials - and despite Krem’s teasing, the first thing he does is climb upstairs and have his ‘old lady nap’. When he emerges a good hour later, rested, shaved, and wearing his cleanest pants, he finds his men have chosen drinking over other activities, and are already growing a bit too noisy.

“Listen up, cupcakes,” Bull rumbles, and manages to silence the whole tavern. A couple of locals give him an anxious look. “Just a friendly reminder that I need you sober and functional in three days, because we’re about to start looking for jobs.”

“Of course, ser,” Stitches says. He is holding a small cup of wine, and looking impossibly serious. Bull kind of wishes all his men were like Stitches.

“Anyways, “ Bull continues, “I’m going to take off for a while, so you lot better behave yourselves. I don’t want to have to go and apologize to the City Guard and the Chantry folks - ” he gives Rocky and Grim a pointy glare - “again.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Chief,” Rocky says in an evasive voice. “And besides, it wasn’t my fault.”

“It was absolutely your fault.”

“Don’t worry about it, mother,” Krem quips and pulls Rocky with him. “I’ll keep an eye on them.” They head towards the counter where Skinner is ordering some drinks in loud Orlesian; she loves being able to yell at people in her Native language. Krem sets Rocky on a sturdy stool, and turns to look at Bull. “Hey, Chief.”

“Yeah, Krem?”

“Bring me some meringues, would you?” Krem grins like the asshole that he is. “And keep your dick out of trouble.”

_How funny he should say that_ , Bull thought afterwards. 

After leaving the tavern Bull roams the busy streets without clear destination. He sees a fruit vendor, and since he's been craving dark grapes, he buys some, and eats them on the spot. He checks out the harbor: chats up some fishermen, buys a one-eyed sea captain a solidary beer, and flirts with a petite redhead selling clams - she's interested but too young, so Bull leaves it at that. Her rosy cheeks steer Bull's thoughts towards a certain direction however, so he ignores Krem’s warning, and in his head begins to go through a list of local ladies and gentlemen who might be happy to see him. Usually he prefers common folks to nobles; they are more honest and one dares to relax in their presence - but on the other hand, the upper cruster tend to be into kinky stuff he finds he might be in the mood for. He wonders if certain comte and comtesse are around, or if they've fled to the countryside as nobles tend to do when the summer heat hits the cities. Perhaps he will check on that later on.

The market square is as busy and noisy as ever. People make way for Bull without asking - they usually do when you’re nearly eight feet tall - but he sprinkles polite _excuse mes_ and _pardons_ as he goes, all the while smiling disarmingly. He doesn't stop to check on any merchandise however, no matter how tempting the scent of spices or the glimmer of trinkets, because he is heading to one of his favorite things in all of Orlais: a charming outdoor cafe, just past the square, that serves the best hot chocolate this side of Par Vollen.

The owner, a bird-like elderly man wearing a beaded cat mask, steps out behind the counter, and greets Bull enthusiastically. Bull shakes the offered hand. ”Hello there, Alec,” he says in perfect Orlesian. ”How have you been?”

They exchange pleasantries and gossip for a while (Bull will write it all down later, of course), and then Alec makes him a cup - a huge cup, more like a pitcher - of hot chocolate, and tops it with guimauves. ”You are too good to me,” Bull sighs. He picks up his treat and turns around, looking for a place to sit.

The cafe is popular, especially this time of afternoon, and tables seem occupied by people looking for shadow and a cool drink. Bull is just about to give up and drink his precious chocolate where he stands, when he notices a table in a secluded corner, right behind a decorative column, with just one patron. Almost as if the other people were avoiding him. Bull stretches his neck to take a better look.

The man, young and clearly a noble, is nursing a coblet of wine, and reading a book in the green shade created by the golden afternoon sun sifting through the lush vine trellis beside him. He is wearing an airy ivory tunic with a fancy-looking sash, light buckled boots, and a silver lace mask that covers most of his face - but he is not Orlesian: his skin tone is wrong, for one, and his outfit, while attractive, is not what locals would consider acceptable because it leaves his arms bare. Even his mustache, fancy, waxed, and absolutely ridiculous, is too thin to be fashionable.

The man turns his head a bit, and Bull gets the strangest feeling, like a bell ringing in the back of his mind. He takes a closer look at the stranger. The smooth brown skin. The long fingers crusted with sparkling rings. The plump, sensual mouth.

Bull's jaw drops.

Sitting before him, clean, shaved, and shiny, is none other than Dorian Pavus. Overcome by delight and intrigue, Bull forgets about his usual carefulness, and zigzags his way to the table. He stops right by it, and _looms_.

It takes a moment before Dorian, who is very much focused on his book, takes note. He looks up - and up - until he is staring right at Bull's face. His mouth falls open. His skin goes pale, then red. Oddly charmed by this reaction, Bull stares into his widened eyes. They are carefully lined and even prettier than he remembers; they remind him of thunder, diamonds, and old silver.

”Well, well,” Bull says in a deep voice. He grabs a chair, and promptly positions himself opposite Dorian - luckily this cafe has sturdy seats because they get Qunari patrons every now and then. ”What do you know.”

Dorian's stares, incredulous, as Bull tastes his hot chocolate, and smacks his lips. ”Koslun's horns, I've missed this stuff.” He studies his cup thoughtfully. ”Do you like chocolate, Dorian?”

The mage finally snaps out of his stunned state. ” _Fasta vass!_ What are you doing here?” he hisses. Bull picks up a half-melted marshmallow, and sticks it in his mouth. Sharp sweetness bites his tongue.

”Just arrived this morning with my boys. We're taking a couple of days off.” He winks at Dorian. ”Small world, huh?”

”Too small, probably.” The mage sounds annoyed, but now that he is over his initial shock, his demeanor begins to soften. He closes his book, and crosses his fingers. ”However, since I am not a barbarian…” He bows his head minutely. ”Greetings, the Iron Bull.”

”Greetings to you, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian shifts on his seat, as if uncomfortable by the sound of his name. Bull gives a considerate smile, but doesn't say anything; he takes another sip from his mug, and lets his sly eye glide over Dorian's outfit. It really does look good. He glances at the mage's bare neck where the birthright should be, but isn't anymore. He wonders if Dorian was forced to sell it to get some funds, but chooses not to ask about it - it's probably a sensitive topic, and Bull is not here to push the Vint’s buttons. Not that way anyway.

”You look very nice,” he says out loud. Dorian tsks.

”Obviously.”

Bull tilts his head. ”Not sure about the mask though.”

”Too Orlesian?”

”That. And to be honest, I'd kinda like to see your face.”

”Ah. Well. It is a sight worth seeing, I assure you.” Dorian doesn't make any attempt to remove the mask though. Pity, since Bull really wouldn't mind seeing him the way he really is, without any dirt and dark stubble on his face. But if Dorian prefers to stay incognito, Bull won't harass him about it any further.

”How have you been?” he asks instead. Dorian shrugs.

”I've got my book and my wine.” It's not much of an answer, but he seems content enough. He twists the tip of his mustache; a sapphire in his ring flashes, a sharp blue sparkle in the sun. ”And how about you?”

”Not too bad. Busy slaying dragons and saving maidens… well, make it slaying hoards of stinky spiders on a potato field, and chasing down a comte's useless son who ran away with a cook twice his age.”

”Ouch.”

”I know; you'd think she had a better taste than that.” Dorian snorts; Bull winks at him. ”How do you find Val Royeaux?”

”It's not Minrathous, but it's not too bad. Apart from the Orlesians, of course.”

”Of course. ”

”And I’m pleased to report that while I'm definitely looked down on, no one has physically attacked me yet. Which, I suppose, is an improvement.”

”Mmm.” Bull hums, thumbs the edge of his cup. He looks Dorian in the eye. ”Listen, I’m sorry I got so rough on your ass when we first met. I was sort of in a bad place.” Dorian crosses his arms.

”Uh-huh.”

”Why don't you let me buy you a drink.”

”Oh, certainly, that will make up for the collar and a sleepless night on the floor.”

”Hey.”

”Oh, fine then. As long as it's nothing Fereldan.”

They order a cooled pitcher of apple wine. It is crisp and fragrant, perfect for a hot afternoon.

_”Kost,”_ Bull says and raises his goblet. ”Peace.”

”Why not.” Dorian's lips curl into a thin pink smile.

They empty the pitcher and talk about the kind of light, harmless things one talks about on a sunny afternoon. Bull feels a pleasant warmth spreading throughout him when Dorian laughs out loud at his story about the time he and the Chargers dressed up in feathers for a job. Bull thinks how it must have been forever since Dorian had a chance to spend some time in friendly company.

”I find myself thinking about you ever so often,” Dorian says unexpectedly, after he's finished the last of his wine. The alcohol has brought some rosiness to his cheeks, his eyes are intense, bolder. Bull arches his eyebrow.

”Do you now.” He leans back in his seat. ”That's funny; I find myself thinking about you too.”

As soon as Bull says it, he realizes he probably shouldn't have; while true - he has been thinking about the strange Vint more often than he cares to admit during these months - it sounds too much like flirting. Dorian pauses, and squints his eyes. The sounds of the city, the singing of the bard take over for a moment. Dorian's gaze travels down on Bull's shoulders and chest, very much the same way they did when they were together in the woods, then onto his hands, and stops there - and even though he is wearing a mask, Bull can sense longing in him. Not for Bull specifically, perhaps, but longing nevertheless. He looks back up, straight in Bull's eye. ”I've got a room in a nearby inn. Would you be interested in taking this conversation there?”

Bull feels his breath catching. Which is funny, because he doesn't get that way often. ”You know, I am flattered and all, but the thing is, I don't bed mages.” He says it almost without thinking; it's what he always says when it comes to magically inclined people. But for whatever reason this time he feels bad about it. Dorian laughs brightly.

”Afraid I'm going to bust out in demons?”

”Eh, something like that. It's nothing personal, just being careful.”

”Yes, I'm sure I understand.” Dorian returns to the book, nonchalant. ”Your loss then. Now if you'll excuse me...”

Shit. Bull sighs and gets up to his feet. ”See you around,” he says. Dorian flutters his fingers airily.

”Goodbye.”

 

***

 

Bull spends the rest of the day shopping. He bumps into a sweet old Vashoth lady with beautifully decorated horns, and purchases some red tea and two wonderful Qunari-size blankets: she weaves them the way they do in Par Vollen, and the quality is excellent. Then he visits a surfacer blacksmith, and gets himself a new belt buckle and a whetstone, and - because he’s the best fucking boss - a set of good steel needles for Krem. Remembering his lieutenant's particular request, Bull also stops by the bakery, and buys an enormous box of peppermint meringues. Krem loves peppermint.

He can't stop thinking about his encounter with Dorian though. The way the mage stared at his hands bothers him: the boy's clearly lonely and touch starved, and isn’t that a shame. Bull sighs. 

The thing is, he likes sex. A lot. And he’ll happily sleep with anyone who wants it or needs it, as long as they are adults in their right mind and don’t rub him in the wrong way; occasionally his superiors tell him to seduce someone, which is less fun because more often than not it’s someone he doesn’t like, but a job is a job: he can compartmentalize it, block it out, be a mere tool. No problem. But there is one rule he has kept all his life, without exception: don’t stick your dick into anyone dealing with magic and shit. 

Dorian deals with magic and shit. And dead people. He is precisely the kind of person whose bed Bull must avoid at all costs: refusing him was the sensible thing to do. The right thing to do.

But even so... it’s hard not to feel guilty. Bull knows he shouldn’t: magic problem aside, it's not his duty to take care of everyone's needs. Right? No matter how lovely and miserable they are. He sighs again, deeper this time. 

He could be so good to Dorian though. He could make him just bloom under his hands, he _knows_. Bull tries to imagine how it might feel to snuggle Dorian’s neck and press against that silky back. Dorian would be so small in his arms, and Bull would be so gentle, and he would push in so slow… Bull grunts and lowers the meringue box he is carrying to cover his stirring erection, and keeps it down there until the urge passes. 

Would it really kill him to sleep with a mage for once? Fine, a bad choice of words, but now that the thought has entered his mind, he's having a hard time getting rid of it. 

As the luck would have it, as he is roaming the main street pondering this, he sees Rocky of all people heading towards an alley a bit further away: the dwarf seems to be in a merry mood, and he is carrying a suspicious-looking barrell. Bull calls for him, and reaches him in a few long steps.

“-ey Chief,” Rocky says, and tries to turn so that Bull doesn’t see his barrell. They are definitely going to have a talk about _that_ later on. “What a surprise.”

“You can say that. I didn’t expect you to leave that tavern before noon tomorrow.”

“I - had to pop out and get something.”

“Right.” Bull begins to pile bags and packages on the frowning dwarf. ”Hey would you do me a favor and take these things back for me?” Rocky swears vehemently.

”Paragons spank my ass, I am not a mule, Chief!”

”Come on, you are great at carrying things, you've got those wide strong arms and everything.” Rocky tries to balance the box of meringues on top of the barrell, and gives Bull a grim stare. 

”And where are you heading?” he asks. Bull winks at him.

”Where do you _think?_ ”

Rocky groans.

 

***

 

”A friend of yours?”

”Yes, ma’am.” Bull puts on his sunniest smile. This is the third inn he is visiting, and it seems like he’s found the right one. ”I know it looks weird, considering he's a Tevinter and I am... not. But we go way back.” 

The innkeeper, a stern-looking lady with an elaborate bun and a tulip-shaped mask, eyes him suspiciously. Bull keeps the smile on his face, and his body language open, nonthreatening. When it comes to humans, he usually plays flirty, dumb, or aggressive, depending - for this lady he goes for dumb and respectful. If he had a hat, he’d be holding it in his hands now. The woman shifts, taps the counter.

“I want no harm to come to messer Pavus.”

_The little weasel has charmed her_ , Bull thinks. _Well done_. “No, never,” he says out loud, and manages to look genuinely shocked. “Dorian is my friend.”

“Yes, so you keep saying.” She purses her lips. She is wearing a tile red lipcolor, all the craze this season, apparently. “Fine then. You _friend's_ room is on the second floor, third one on the left. But,” she raises her finger in warning, ”you better behave yourself, ox.”

”Don't worry, ma'am, it'll be fine.”

”And keep in mind that this is a decent establishment.”

”Of course, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.” Bull performs a small bow. ”I knew you'd be as understanding as you are pretty.” The woman rolls her eyes, but she is smiling now.

Bull keeps his footsteps heavy and lets his leg brace click as he ascends the stairs and enters a frustratingly narrow hallway. The walls are covered with tacky gold-printed wallpaper and copies of famous paintings, but Bull has no mind to admire art at the moment. Dorian opens the door before Bull has the chance to knock.

”I could hear you a mile away,” he says and leans on the door frame. He has taken a bath recently; his hair is damp, and Bull can smell the water and sandalwood on him. He is wearing a pair of soft dark-blue linen pants, and nothing else. His face, now visible, is goddamn beautiful. Stunned, Bull forgets to breathe for a moment.

”Hello?” Dorian frowns, and crosses his arms. Bull blinks.

”Hello,” he replies, feeling like an idiot. Dorian lets out an impatient sigh.

”What are you doing here exactly?”

”Maybe I'd like you to invite me in after all.”

“I thought you said you don't bed mages.”

Bull makes a noncommittal sound. ”I figured as long as you keep the magic crap to minimum I'm willing to give it a shot.”

”Well, maybe I've changed my mind.”

”Come on.” Bull steps closer, and sets his hand on top of the door frame, forcing Dorian to take a good and very close look at his impressive upper body musculature. “Change it back.” The mage stares at the massive pectorals only a few inches from his face, and swallows. His eyes get dark.

”I see you are presenting a pretty convincing argument there.” He steps aside. ”Come in then.” Bull licks his lips.

“Just so we are clear - no magic, right?”

“No magic.”

The room is small and far from altus standards, but it's pretty tidy and has a sturdy-looking bed. There are piles of books here and there; Bull decides he doesn't want to take a closer look at them.

”Wine?” Dorian asks, and lifts a half-empty bottle. He is standing with his back towards Bull now, and Bull is having a hard time getting his eye off it. The way the defined muscles are shifting under the smooth skin is absolutely mesmerizing; he is overcome by a sudden urge to reach and pull, but he resists.

”Don't need it,” he manages. ”Do you?” Dorian clicks his tongue; then he lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks about third of what's left. He wipes his mouth on his palm; his full lips are glistening in the soft candle light, and the sight, while delicious, reminds Bull of their time in the trapper's hut. For a fleeing moment he feels uncomfortable.

”So.” Dorian sets the bottle back down, and makes an elegant gesture. “Shall we?” Bull steps closer, deepens his voice: 

”Get on the bed, pretty boy.”

Dorian flushes, and Bull can tell he wants to obey, bad - but he won't. He lifts his chin instead, and maintains his bravado. That's fine; Bull understands why he is doing that. ”Let's make something clear,” Dorian says. Bull opens his mouth, ready to announce that yeah, he gets it, but then he decides it’s better to let Dorian say what he needs to say, so he shuts up.

“I am not your captive,” Dorian declares. Bull nods. “I won't be bossed around.” Bull shakes his head. Dorian taps Bull’s chest with his finger. “Whatever happens, happens on my terms. Do you understand?” Bull nods again. He gives Dorian a goofy, disarming smile. 

”Would still be nice if we got on the bed, though.”

”Fine: you first.”

Bull sits on the bed, astride - it really is a rather narrow bed - and pats the mattress. Dorian sits down as well, but not quite on the spot suggested. Bull hesitates for a vanishing moment, knowing what he’s about to do next might be received badly, but he trusts his instincts and his ability to read people, so he takes a firm, gentle hold of Dorian’s knees.

“May I?”

Dorian starts, but doesn’t pull away. “May you what?”

Bull slowly spreads his legs, and since there’s no immediate protest, pulls Dorian’s bottom on his lap. Dorian flashes red. Bull leans above him, not too threatening though, and growls softly. ”Tell me to stop and I will. You are the boss.”

”Savage,” Dorian whispers. 

Bull lays his huge hands tentatively on his thighs, and squeezes: ”Thought you'd like that.” Dorian begins to shake, and Bull makes a low, soothing sound. He stays absolutely still, keeping his eye on Dorian's face; once he is sure the mage is, indeed, comfortable with this, he begins to rub slow circles on his thighs. ”This okay?” He smiles. “You getting hard for me?”

Dorian rolls his eyes, then closes them. “Do you always talk this much?”

“...yeah.” 

_“Fasta vass.”_

Bull moves his hands a bit, and allows the sides of his palms to rub lightly against the sides of the now clearly erect member. He takes a deep inhale. He can smell Dorian's arousal, feel his heartbeat, and it’s so good. He lets his palms glide on the hips, so that they are framing the mage's stirring cock - but not touching it. Dorians lips apart, the rosy glow on his cheeks deepens.

”You are lovely, you know,” Bull mumbles more adoringly than he means to. He is a bit surprised by how much he actually wants this... and it's not just because Dorian is pretty; pretty things are two for copper around here. There's something plain charming about the boy. As much as he is a brat, he is also oddly sweet, and wonderfully responsive to the touch. Even if he is holding back still. 

“Relax, Dorian. You’re safe.” Bull lets his thumb make a light circle on the tip of Dorian's length; Dorian gasps, and his beautiful body arches. “Feels good, huh?”

Dorian cracks his eye open, a sharp glint of silver. ”Shut up and take your clothes off. Mine too.”

”Yes, messer.”

Bull undresses Dorian first. Not an unpleasant duty, exactly. He folds his linen pants on a nearby chair, and lets his gaze glide over the smooth brown skin. It is a gorgeous sight, no way around it, and it makes him feel pretty damn warm and eager. Dorian, up on his elbows, is keeping a keen eye on the hardening erection tenting Bull's pants. Bull removes his leg brace, boots, and harness, and finally lets his pants fall. Dorian flinches minutely, but he manages to keep his expression nonchalant.

”I am supposed to take _that?_ ” he asks. Bull shrugs, and picks up his pants off the floor. 

”If you want to. We can do other things if that doesn't catch your fancy.”

Dorian moves closer and pokes the tip of Bull's huge cock with his elegant finger. ”That thing's rather ridiculous, I think. You usually use that with humans?” Bull looks down and frowns, feeling an unfamiliar stir of insecurity. Truth be told he’s pretty proud of his member: it’s big, it’s kinda good-looking, and he knows how to use it; the usual reactions he gets vary from stunned silence to rejoicing _Maker be praised_. He is not used to… doubts. He feels himself shrinking a bit.

”Sure I do.” Bull scratches his head. ”I've never got any complains. You don't like it?”

Dorian swallows. ”I didn't say that now, did I?” He takes a deep breath. ”Oh, I suppose then… never let it be said Dorian Pavus couldn't rise to the occasion.”

”You seem to have risen pretty well,” Bull remarks. He lays his huge hands firmly on Dorian's hips, and attempts to lift him, but Dorian is having none of it. 

“No. Enough of that. Lie on your back.” Bull lets go immediately. He settles himself on the bed as low as possible so as not to scratch the headboard with his horns, his feet set firmly on the floor by the end of the bed. Dorian takes his wrists - which is funny, considering he can’t reach all the way around them, but Bull doesn’t laugh - and presses them down until they are resting against the floor on both sides of the mattress as well. “Stay like this,” Dorian commands. “Do not move.” Bull studies his face.

“Alright.”

Dorian climbs slowly on top of him, astride: Bull closes his eye as the impossibly soft bottom settles on his groin, and slots his cock in between the firm cheeks. _“Fuck.“_ He fights the urge to push up against it; Dorian shudders, and lets out a faint sound of shock or pleasure. 

They stay still for a moment. Bull keeps his eye closed, simply enjoying the feel of it all. Dorian is breathing in short shallow gasps, and if there are other sounds in the world - seagulls shrieking by the harbour, someone passing by on a horse out in the street - Bull refuses to acknowledge them.

Dorian sets his hands carefully on Bull’s chest. His fingers feel warm and strong, he smooths them along and around the wide pectorals, examining the gigantic scarred body under him. “You are so big.” 

Bull opens his eye. Seeing Dorian above him, on him, does things to him. His heart begins to pound faster, and his dick gets even harder, although at this point he honestly didn’t think it possible. “So I am.”

“Let me see your horns.” Without waiting for permission, Dorian's reaches and takes a hold of Bull's horns, and caresses them curiously. Bull can feel a gentle touch moving slowly along the massive, bony curves, right up to the sharp tips. ”They are amazing.”

”Thanks.”

Dorian snorts, and brings his hands back down to Bull's shoulders. He probes the muscles more roughly than he did with the horns, poking and squeezing them; then he pulls up one of Bull’s hands. He feels the weight of it, studies the claws and maimed fingers for a long time, rubs them. It's weird, kind of. But it feels nice, so Bull lets him.

”I like these,” Dorian says. Bull slots their fingers together.

”You'd like them even more if you allowed me to use them.”

Dorian smiles and kisses Bull's wrist, as if in passing; then he pushes his hand back on the floor. “No.” 

Bull sighs, but doesn’t say anything - not that he could either, because right at that moment Dorian begins to roll his hips. He does these small, maddening circles, all the while making the most fascinating sounds. Bull swears, and clenches his hands into fists. He wants to touch so bad - he wants to squeeze those perfect globes rubbing against his cock; he wants to scratch that smooth skin; grab that hair - 

“I’d like to touch you.” He manages to keep his voice steady, but only barely. Dorian won’t even look at him; he begins to slide slowly along Bull’s shaft, back and forth, with an ecstatic look on his face. It feels fucking incredible.

“ - no.”

“Please?” 

“Do not talk.”

Bull lets out a heartfelt sigh, but obeys. Dorian stops unexpectedly, and cracks his eyes open. He examines Bull for a moment, purses his lips. “Fine then. You may prepare me. But that is all, no touching elsewhere.”

Delighted, Bull raises his hands, and settles them carefully on Dorian’s bottom. He feels the delectable body part - so warm, so plump - and begins to knead it. “You have such a great ass.”

“I’m aware.”

“May I eat you out? “

“No.”

Bull bites his lip. He’s pretty sure he could just flip Dorian around and go to town, and the mage would do nothing but howl with pleasure - but he’d be pissed off afterwards, and the trust would be gone. Bull can’t have that. After all he is a friggin respectful lover, and secondly, as crazy as it sounds, he’s already hoping he might be able to do this again sometimes.

Dorian pulls out a vial of oil from somewhere, and hands it to Bull. Bull coats his fingers - it's good oil, thick and golden in color - and begins to carefully rub the tight opening. He goes slow and gentle, never taking his eye off Dorian’s face.

_”Come on already,”_ Dorian complains - and then he gasps, as Bull abruptly pushes his thick finger inside him. ”...thank you.”

”You feel nice.”

”Maker, your fingers are big too,” Dorian mutters in desperation. He is squeezing the sheets like his life depends on it. Bull is tempted to move his other hand from Dorian's hip to caress his cock, but rejects the idea, because he hasn’t been invited to do so. Pity, because Dorian has a really pretty cock. He adds another finger instead, and gives Dorian’s prostate a nice quick rub in passing. 

”You beast!” the mage squawks. ”Do it again.”

Bull does, a couple more times actually; he is just beginning to think that perhaps Dorian wants to come like this (which would be gorgeous), when Dorian grabs his hands and pushes them away on the floor again. Bull covers a frustrated groan. 

“If it’s alright with you,” Dorian says, and pours a good amount of warm oil all over Bull’s groin area, “I’d like to ride you now.”

“...knock yourself out, Vint.”

Dorian takes a good grip of Bull’s shaft, and spreads the oil around in a practiced movement: it’s hard to say which one of them enjoys this more, as they are both practically trembling with lust now. Finally Dorian positions himself, and brings the wide tip against his opening. Bull is seriously struggling to keep his hands still; he is dying to get inside, but at the same time he wants, _needs_ to grab Dorian’s hips, and make sure that he doesn’t take it too fast. 

“Easy does it - go slow. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Most considerate,” Dorian mumbles, and sinks just past the tip in one smooth glide. For a moment he looks like he is about to faint: the expression of fear and euphoria on his face is indescribable. “Oh!“ he gasps, and freezes. He closes his eyes, his mouth hangs open. Bull grinds his teeth.

“ _Slow_ , Dorian. You keep that up, I’m going to take over. I mean it.”

Dorian makes an annoyed sound, but he does go slow then; he keeps rocking up and down, up and down, taking Bull in inch by inch, until the painfully thick cock is finally buried to the hilt. Then he lets out a pleased sound, and stills for a long moment, as if listening to his body.

Bull doesn’t know how he feels inside Dorian - probably pretty damn good - but Dorian around him feels plain amazing; better than anything he can think of. Dorian is hot and so tight, that when he finally begins to move, it is impossible for Bull to keep his hips totally still. He squeezes his muscles in the rhythm of Dorian’s riding, swearing in Qunlat under his breath, and fearing he’ll be reaching the end too soon. 

It's so good - _so good_ -

Dorian changes his angle a bit, and picks up his speed, and after that it’s a losing battle: Bull thrusts up into the moaning mage hard - once, twice, again - and again - and then Dorian does this thing where he clenches his muscles, and the pleasure becomes unbearable. Bull shudders, he feels as if he’s rising up in the air, and then he comes hard with an uncharacteristically loud growl and empties himself into Dorian’s softness. His cock is still throbbing, when Dorian lets out a long muffled cry, and comes as well. He collapses on Bull’s semen-covered chest, sweaty and perfectly messed up.

Bull’s arms rise as if they’ve got a mind of their own - there’s nothing that could stop them now - and wrap around the smaller man, strong and protective. He pulls Dorian up and closer, until the mage’s damp forehead is leaning against his throat; he is a cuddler after all. He breathes in the scent of Dorian's hair oil, feeling wonderfully sore and overwhelmed.

” _Fuck_ that was nice."

”Truly,” Dorian is gasping for air, his chest heaving. He pats Bull's bicep. ”Now kindly get out.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...there's a hole in the Sky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Inquisition! My purpose is NOT to retell the game… but I have to set the stage, so bear with me. :) 
> 
> Also: there's a very short and potentially uncomfortable moment of sexual nature in the latter part of this chapter. You may consider it hot, or you may consider it disrespectful - just know that Dorian likes it. 
> 
> Thank You, precious readers, and Thank You, [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan), my Sssssuper Beta! <3
> 
> Oh, [ToPerceiveIsToBePerceptive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToPerceiveIsToBePerceptive/pseuds/ToPerceiveIsToBePerceptive) \- my Adaar sends his regards to Jill! *winkwink*

When the sky is torn open by a bright green explosion, Bull's first thought is 'demons'.

Well - actually his first thought is something along the lines of _what the fuck_ , which is followed by _demons_ , which is followed by an unexpected memory of a colorful funnel of light rising in the dark woods. That funnel was caused by a feisty Tevinter mage named Dorian Pavus. This freaky phenomenon, he's pretty sure, is not caused by Dorian Pavus. He'd still bet his money on some other Tevinter mages, because it's exactly the kind of shit they get up to.

Bull sends out some messages. And then he receives messages, and sends out some more. He learns about the explosion at the Conclave - great - and that the Divine is dead - fucking fantastic - and eventually about this 'Herald of Andraste' who is supposedly a... Qunari? Which is ridiculous. Bull's superiors think it is ridiculous too, but since there's an unlikely chance that it's true, it needs to be investigated; the whole ugly mess needs to be investigated. So Bull is given an order to approach the Herald and this Inquisition he runs with.

Bull sends out Krem, of course. Not only because Krem can be pleasant when he is not being an asshole, but also because it makes sense to send a human to humans. Works better than a nearly eight feet tall oxman anyway. Krem returns with the information that the famed Herald is, indeed, a Qunari, or rather a friggin Vashoth: his name is Adaar, he is a mercenary, and from what Krem tells he sounds like he’s got a stick up his ass. Be that as it may, he has agreed to meet Bull on the Storm Coast where the Chargers are hunting down some Vints.

Adaar, turns out, is as good as his word, and shows up on a particularly gloomy afternoon a week later. Bull, after receiving the word of the Herald's arrival in the area, has been holding back the attack against the Vints they're closing in on; when he gets the confirmation that Adaar is on his way to the rendezvous point, Bull finally unleashes his Chargers on their target. A minute or two into to the fight he hears a warcry, a great deep roar, which announces clearer than any words the arrival of one of his own kind, and next thing he knows a black Qunari arrow is piercing the throat of a Vint before him about to cast a lightning spell.

The fight is fierce, but not long. Once it is over, Bull, who didn't have much chance to concentrate on anything else but cutting through enemies during the ruckus, stops, his chest heaving, and turns to face the Herald of Andraste.

The man before him is definitely a Qunari: tall, lanky, serious. He has copper-capped ram style horns, squinting eyes, and two ridiculously thick dark-red braids that are reaching down to his waist; Bull, who has rarely seen that particular hair color on a Qunari, finds it hugely attractive. Long hair itself is risky, of course, but since Adaar is a range fighter, Bull supposes he can get away with it. Reflecting his choice of a weapon, his hands and wrists are tattooed with swirling symbols and runes related to archery, the blue ink old and faded. His left hand glows with the same sickening green as the hole in the sky.

”Hot damn, it's true,” Bull says, and lets out a booming laughter. He tries not to look at the hand. ”Oh, the Chantry must love you.”

Adaar spits and swears in Qunlat, and from that moment Bull likes him. Even if he is a damn infidel, Adaar immediately reminds Bull of his old comrades, and it's hard not to feel connected when you meet someone else with horns.

They have a short talk under the wet grey skies of the Storm Coast. Bull comes clean about who he is and why he is here; he considered other tactics, of course, but he likes being honest when he can, and he doesn't want to get caught lying later on about his motives.

When Bull says he is Ben-Hassrath, Adaar, expectedly, takes a step back and shows his teeth - he is missing a canine, not uncommon in their line of work - but allows Bull to have his say: ”Basically I'm here to offer my help, and figure out if you guys can handle this. Because if you can't, there's a good chance my people will launch an invasion and deal with it themselves.” Bull pauses, gives a considerate smile. ”So off the record, it would probably be better for everyone if you guys could handle this.”

Adaar's companions, a way-too-casually grinning dwarf, a snotty-looking elven mage, and a tall Nevarran woman, who must be Seeker Pentaghast, are keeping a keen eye on them, but none of them interferes, and Adaar doesn't consult them. Bull thinks he should consult Seeker Pentaghast at the very least. Bull would.

”Alright,” Adaar says, and hardens his stare. The rain is tingling against the dark metal of his pauldrons, a fiery strand of hair that has escaped from his braid is fluttering in the salty wind. ”You run your little reports past Leliana before sending them. You send nothing she doesn't approve. If this turns out to be a trick, or if your reports compromise the Inquisition, Cassandra will eat you alive.”

Bull glances at the Seeker, who is trying to look as imposing as possible. _She can eat me anytime_ , Bull thinks. ”Deal,” he says out loud. ”Wouldn't have it any other way.”

 

***

 

Haven turns out to be small, cold, and over-crowded. Nevertheless, the Chargers are happy to be around friendly-minded people for a change, and set up their camp right outside the walls. After they find out that there is a tavern, their mood improves even further.

Bull sends Krem to take care of the paperwork with ambassador Montilyet, and gives the others a permission to go to the tavern with strict instructions to keep the chest pounding to a minimum near Inquisition soldiers. He is planning on joining them himself, but not quite yet. There's someone he needs to see first.

He finds the Left Hand by a tent near the Chantry building. She is a slim, pale woman, reminding Bull of a rapier or a dagger, and quite beautiful. The only seemingly warm thing about her, the lustrous golden red hair, is covered by a hood.

”Nightingale,” he says, and stops way before reaching her personal space; partly out of respect, partly because he has read the dossier sent to him, and knows better. Leliana lifts her head. Her cool eyes look like moonstones in the white mid-morning light.

_”Hissrad,”_ she says. The nerve of her. Bull shrugs, unflinched.

”The Iron Bull will do.”

”As you wish.” Her Orlesian accent is soft as down, but Bull doesn't mistake the tone friendly. She arranges some papers in a pile, flips them over. ”I take it the Herald made clear the terms of our arrangement, the Iron Bull.”

”He did. Anything I send out will go through you.” Bull keeps the eye contact, makes it look sincere. ”And I assure you I am here to observe and help, not to harm.”

”For now.”

_For now,_ Bull repeats in his mind, but doesn't say out loud. They both know situations change. Leliana turns to face him properly, studies him. ”You've been the Iron Bull for a long time now.”

”Suppose.”

”It's interesting,” she says, as her stare intensifies, ”how your cover can eat you up in the end. I wonder if you see yourself more as a mercenary captain or Hissrad at this point.”

That gives Bull a pause. He was prepared for Nightingale poking him, but he didn't expect her to dive this deep this fast. ”One is flexible.” He smiles jovially. ”Whatever is required one delivers.”

”Such a Qunari thing to say.”

”Does that answer your question then?”

Leliana hums, it almost sounds like a small tune. ”Well. Be that as it may. Here you are.”

”Here I am.”

”For reasons I'm sure you're aware of I can't say that I am overly excited about this arrangement. But since we share a common goal, and since we both have intel the other wants...” she makes an airy gesture. ”I suppose there's a possibility for our relationship to become mutually beneficial. No need to make this unpleasant. ”

Bull decides to test the waters; he blinks slowly in a way that could be a wink, warms his voice: ”I'll say.” Leliana tsks.

”Do not flirt with me. It won't lead anywhere, and I'm annoyed by it.”

”Hey, I'm a flirty guy,” Bull notes, but drops it. Call it professional courtesy.

”And I used to be a flirty girl,” Leliana mumbles.

They talk for a half an hour or so, mostly about practical things, dancing around each other. They are not friendly, that much is clear, but they are not openly hostile either, which is frankly more than Bull dared to hope for. In fact, he finds he quite likes Nightingale, and it's not just because she is a pretty redhead. It's delightful to meet someone so sharp.

They part on seemingly good terms, and Bull manages to take two, three steps, before he hears her speaking again, so softly it makes him wonder if she actually wanted him to hear it in the first place: ”Does your Arishok still like cats?”

Bull stops. Grinning, he looks at her over his shoulder. ”He's got five of them.”

 

***

 

Adaar, Bull finds out, is the kind of person who loves to work in the field. This is no surprise, of course, considering he is a mercenary - but it might be problematic for Bull, because although he wouldn't mind spending his days spying on the organization in Haven, he'd rather be where the action is, and where Leliana isn't.

Before he gets a chance to figure out how to persuade Adaar to drag him along as a party member, the Herald approaches him himself. He marches into Bull's tent, two days after their arrival, and crosses his arms, as if to protect himself.

_Oh, but he is terrified of me_ , Bull thinks.

”So I am trying to figure out if I want you with me or not,” Adaar states in his blunt way. Bull looks at him, amused, fighting the deceptive, comforting sense of familiarity that tends to take over whenever he talks to Adaar. They may be alike, but they are not the same, and he'd do well to remember that.

”You don't know if you can trust me to get your back out there,” Bull says, ”but then you don't trust me enough to leave me here either.”

”Something like that.” Adaar taps his dark claws against his arm. ”I guess I could leave you, and have Leliana keep an eye on you, but...” he falls quiet.

”You don't think Your Spy Master capable?”

”Oh, she is capable. Even compared to Ben-Hassrath.” (There's a slight flinch.) ”But will she tell me anything?” Adaar shrugs. ”I don't know her or any of them well enough yet.” Bull nods, suddenly realizing how terribly lonely and out of place Adaar must feel.

”Trust takes time.”

Adaar chews his lip. ”Umh,” he says. Bull sighs.

”Okay. Let's make this simple. When we met at the Storm Coast, I told you _whatever you need_ \- and I meant it. I can do odd jobs for you with my boys, or I can follow you to missions, either way. But frankly… I could be of great help out there. I am good at fighting, and I am observant. I can think on my feet. And I just might get you better than your other companions.” He grins. ”Not to mention I'm the only one big enough to shield you with my body if needed.”

”So helpful.”

”We need you alive, boss.”

Adaar looks down, then back up at Bull. Flickering lantern light reflects in his nonhuman eyes, turning them into golden mirrors. ”Alright,” he says. His jawline tightens. ”Alright: you will join my party. And you will behave yourself, or there will be Void to pay.”

”No problem, boss. Thanks, boss.”

Adaar relaxes somewhat. He lets the tension run off his shoulders, shakes his arms the way one does after lifting something heavy. ”So…” he clears his throat, avoids Bull's eye. ”Would you care for some drinks later? I think they got a small delivery of West Hill Brandy this morning.”

”Sure thing.” Bull winks. ”First I think I'm going to pay this Chantry sister a visit though.” Adaar's eyebrow arches.

”You're not Andrastian.”

”I won't be visiting her for spiritual purposes.”

It takes a moment before Adaar gets it. He bursts into dry, booming laughter. ”As the Herald of Andraste I should probably disapprove.” Bull joins in.

”You know how it goes, boss. Humans see us coming, big guys with big horns, and immediately they either hate us, or want to fuck us.”

”Or both.”

”Or both, yes. Just the way it is with our kind.”

Adaar stretches his tattooed fingers: golden green light flickers in between them, as if he's holding a huge sparkling peridot on his palm. He stares at it with a disdained expression. ”I don't know if I am anyone's kind anymore.”

Bull forces himself to look at the eerie glow. He hates it, absolutely hates it. ”You are more than a spooky ass fade mark on your hand, boss.” Adaar lets out a bitter snort.

”I am,” he says, but it's hard to say if it is a statement or a question.

 

***

 

Adaar brings Bull on his first field mission three days later.

They run all over the Hinterlands, working on some important tasks (horses for the Inquisition), and some menial tasks (delivering flowers to someone's grave? really?), but in the end Bull likes helping people out, so none of it is too bad. Besides, the country is pretty, the weather's nice, and the members in his new team are… interesting.

Bull makes a tidy personal file of each of them for his own personal use, and these are the kinds of things he does not run by Leliana. He gathers information, writes up little notions; he figures out the best way to communicate with them, and the best way to take them out. Standard Ben-Hassrath stuff.

Bull has a lot of respect for Cassandra in particular - tough as nails, that one, but soft at heart - and they get along well, even if she pretends to hate Bull's flirting. He also finds he enjoys Sera, who is outrageous and vulnerable, and always up for a laugh (she is suspicious, but she'll come around, Bull knows). Another favorite is Varric. Not surprising, really: the dwarf is a downright charming fellow with great social skills - and an excellent liar. Their resident Grey Warden Blackwall is a liar too, but unlike Varric, who smoothly lies a bit about everything, Blackwall is lying about something _specific_ , and he's not very good at it - which in Bull's book makes him a basically decent person, and they bond quickly, as two warriors tend to do.

Beside warriors and rogues, Adaar has chosen two mages in the group. There's Madame de Fer, Enchanter to the Imperial court of Orlais, and Solas, the elven apostate. Bull spends a long time figuring out which way to go with them. Apart from Dalish Bull is not comfortable with mages, but since he is here to gather information, he will do his best to connect with these two. Madame de Fer, turns out, is a terrifying brilliant woman, but she is also over-confident, and Bull likes to play with things like that, so he goes for submissive; even if she knows Bull is playing her - Bull is pretty sure she knows - she doesn't seem to mind this, and to everyone's shock, she quickly becomes fond of him. With Solas things are… trickier. Partly because there's something off about him - he's too smooth, his story doesn't check out - and partly because there's less pretending, and more pure hostility: Solas hates the Qun with a burning passion, and more often than Bull cares, they end up arguing over it. When this happens, Adaar begins to grind his teeth and walks away.

Generally speaking, Bull likes the group. They are diverse, sure, but they are also strong and capable in their own ways, and despite their differences work well together, which very much reminds him of his Chargers. And as for their secrets, Bull feels no need to go and figure them out, not yet anyway: he has no time, for one, and there are bigger things to worry about.

First of all there is the Breach. Right from the beginning it's been clear that although Adaar is bearing the mark, Anchor, they call it, and although he is becoming more and more skilful at using it, they still need help in closing the damn thing. Unfortunately, the two parties able to be of any assistance - the mages and the templars - are at war, turning Hinterlands into a burning, demon-infested mess, attacking anything in sight like rabid dogs.

As Bull understands it, the Templars could use their powers to suppress the magic of the breach, whereas the mages could use their magic to augment the Anchor's power and strengthen Adaar. On the mages’ side, he knows Grand Enchanter Fiona has approached Adaar and requested a meeting in Redcliffe; on the other hand, Leliana and Josephine have managed to persuade some Orlesian nobles to pressure the Templars into negotiations in Therinfal Redoubt.

Adaar dislikes both sides. And for a long time he seems unwilling to go for one way or the other, but his advisors' desperation forces his hand, and eventually, predictably, he goes for the Templars. He may be a Vashoth, but he has inherited the deeply-rooted fear of mages from his parents, and the idea of someone channeling more magic into him terrifies him. Bull agrees with his decision on pure principal, but when it's time for the Herald to travel to Therinfal Redoubt, he finds he doesn't get chosen for the team. That's fine.

Afterwards, of course, Bull was glad he wasn't. _Demons._

The Templars join the Inquisition, and a pale creepy spirit boy named Cole joins Adaar's team, but whatever - they are ready to seal the Breach once and for all, and then, hopefully, they can put this whole mess behind them. Sure, there will still be problems with the mages, and the Templars, and Vints, and Koslun knows how it will go for the Inquisition and Adaar... but at least they'll be done with the Fade shit.

Bull stands on a tall icy cliff in Haven on a cold day, Krem by his side, and through the falling snow watches the sky, the swirling hole he usually refuses to look at. There's a flash - the Breach seems to shrink, then expand, it's pulsing like a heartbeat - and then, just like that, it collapses and vanishes. The sky is clean, cloudy, and fucking beautiful. The faint green glow that has been resting on the land is gone.

”I am going to get so drunk,” Krem says. Bull stares at the clouds, smells the wind. There's… something wrong still. He's not sure what it is, but it feels like something's about to happen; he is not getting the sense of relief and joy he was expecting.

”No,” he says. Krem doesn't argue - good boy - but he gives Bull a look.

”Getting another one of those funny feelings?”

”Yeah.”

”Alright. I'll see that the boys are geared up and staying sober.”

People always say they hate when they're right. Bull hates it more than most people because he has the tendency to be right about shitty things.

The alarm. The torches on the mountainside, like twinkling fireflies. The army without a banner. People screaming, running around.

And then - then:

_”If someone could open this, I'd appreciate it.”_

Bull has a short moment to realize that the voice behind the main gate sounds oddly familiar, and then the gate is opened, and he dashes outside, right behind Adaar and Cullen - and freezes.

On the snowy ground, surrounded by dead bodies, crouches a dark-haired man in fancy clothing, holding a staff in his hand. Bull recognizes him immediately, even before he lifts his head - but the sheer ridiculousness of the idea has him doubting what he's seeing. It is not possible; it doesn't make any sense, but there it is: he is staring at the beautiful, exhausted face of Dorian Pavus.

Their eyes meet. Bull doesn't think he has ever seen anyone as surprised - possibly this one Tal-Vashoth he ambushed in Seheron - but then he's pretty sure his own expression is not much different. He gets the feeling like the time stops for a moment, that there is nothing else in the world than the two of them gaping at each other, but Dorian gets over his surprise fast; he's carrying the air of a man who bears severe news, and has no time for trivialities.

”Ah! I'm here to warn you,” he turns to Adaar. ”Fashionably late I'm afraid.”

 

***

 

Later, when it is all over, all Bull can think of is how angry he is.

He is angry because Haven is gone. He is angry because fucking Adaar is gone. He is angry at the snow storm and the darkness, and at the fact that he wasn't allowed to fight the crazy ancient Vint, whatever the fuck his name is, or his badass dragon.

When Adaar is found in the snow, alive, the relief is imminent: the situation may still be dire, but at least the Herald is still alive. Without him… well. No one wants to think about that. Bull feels most of his anger slipping away, and he allows himself to finally sense the ache of his body and the biting cold. Cullen and Cassandra decide it's time to set up a camp for the rest of the night. Bull gives orders to the Chargers, and their tents are up faster than anyone else's; Bull may not keep as strict discipline as the army generals, but Krem does, and Bull's men are used to acting fast on short notice when they need to.

Bull exchanges a word or two with his shivering lieutenant, and is just about to retire, when he sees Dorian Pavus of all people stepping out from one of the healer's tents. Bull remembers seeing him taking care of injured Chancellor Roderick, and he must have left him with the healers now. Why the Vint insisted on taking care of the old pain in the ass is a mystery; Bull would have finished his suffering in Haven, and left him there. He's as good as dead anyway.

Dorian stops, looks at Bull. They haven't talked: they barely had the time to acknowledge each other's presence when Dorian arrived in Haven, and after that it was all chaos. They stare at each other across the small opening now. Snowflakes are spinning and dancing in the golden halos cast by small fires set up around the camp; they are piling up fast on Dorian's messy hair and blanket-covered shoulders. He looks cold, tired, lonely.

Bull thinks how he has seen him like this before, and feels a sting of empathy - but then he feels other things too. The spy in him is suspicious: there are questions, so many questions, about Dorian showing up in Haven, and he will have to dig into that when he gets a chance. And then there's the part of him that is in a touchy, unreasonable mood, and, frankly, a bit resentful. He thinks about their last meeting in Val Royeaux, and although it's a mostly pleasurable memory, the way he got thrown out of Dorian's bed still stings a bit. He is not sure why; he's been thrown out before.

Not the time to go there. Not the time. He is too emotionally and physically beaten, too strung tight - - He takes a deep, calming breath, hardens his heart, and turns towards his tent.

_”Bull.”_

He doesn't look back, stops though. He hears Dorian taking a couple hesitant steps in the snow. ”I don't believe I have a place to stay for tonight.” He sounds weak, apologetic. A freezing flurry sweeps through the camp.

”And?”

”And I was wondering…”

Irritation grabs Bull's gut, but he manages to keep it down. He turns to face the mage, sighs. ”What? You thought you could stay with me?” He's about to say more - but then Dorian's face is right there, so close, and he looks just... pitiful. His nose is red and leaking, his pretty silver eyes barely open. Bull exhales and lets out a groan. ”Fine. But just for tonight.” 

He barely manages to finish the sentence, when Dorian is already dashing by him, and diving into the tent. Bull enters a couple of seconds later, only to find that the man has already conjured a pale sphere of light, and is pulling off his boots.

_”No magic in my tent,”_ Bull rumbles. Dorian kills the light immediately.

Bull removes his harness and boots, and crawls in his bedroll beside the quivering mage. As soon as he lies down, Dorian digs himself into his armpit without the slightest hesitation. Bull hisses through his teeth.

”You feel like a brick of ice.”

”I'm sorry,” Dorian mumbles, but instead of pulling away, he snuggles closer: lifts his leg over Bull's thigh, and rests his head on Bull's pectoral. Bull's arm lies beside his back, tense. Dorian grabs it, and pulls it around himself like a stole, and lets out a small, content sound.

They lie quietly in the darkness. The snow is hissing against the thick canvas of the tent, driven by the howling wind outside. Bull thinks about the sunny cafe in Val Royeaux. It feels distant, unreachable; like it happened to someone else. He thinks about how Dorian smelled in his bed in that Orlesian inn, so sweet and hot. This Dorian smells of cold leather and wool - but there's that familiar hint of perfume as well. Bull turns his head away so as not to smell his hair, but there's no getting away from it.

”Hey.” Dorian's voice sounds like silk in the darkness. Bull covers a sigh.

”Hello.”

Dorian shifts a bit. ”I was so surprised. I heard the Inquisition hired you.”

”So they did.”

A pause. ”You are mad at me?”

Bull doesn't answer. Dorian's hand that's been pushed into Bull's armpit slides on Bull's chest, and rubs it apologetically. It feels like someone drawing icicles across his skin. ”Bull...”

”I'm not in a mood for talking. It's been a fucking fucked up day and I am beat. Good night.”

Dorian falls silent. His cold, long fingers find Bull's hand, and wrap around his maimed ones. Bull knows he should pull away, but he doesn't, and what he does next he has no explanation for. Perhaps it's the exhaustion or the silly grudge he's carrying, but suddenly his usual safeguards go down, and something primitive takes over. Without a word he grabs Dorian's jaw, turns his head to the side, and bites hard into the warm salty skin by the spot where neck meets shoulder, marking him.

Dorian gasps, doesn't fight it, doesn't let go of Bull's hand. Bull growls softly, revels in the scent of his skin, but is starting to feel like shit even before he lets go. He pulls away, swears under his breath.

_”Well then,”_ Dorian whispers, sounding borderline amused of all things. He is practically vibrating, and Bull is pretty sure it's not because of cold.

”Fuck. I'm sorry.” Bull closes his eye, and clenches his hands into fists: his claws press onto his palms like blunt daggers. Dorian traces his areola with his pinky finger, light, carefree.

”Once we get somewhere warmer and more comfortable, I wouldn't mind you doing more than - ”

”Probably not a good idea.” Bull tries to pull away, but Dorian follows his movement like a particularly affectionate leech, remaining stuck to his side.

”You certain?”

”Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Dorian makes a noncommittal sound, and relaxes. He doesn't speak after that.

When Bull wakes up in the morning the blizzard is over, the world is grey and silent, and Dorian is still holding his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behold... Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning for this chapter!
> 
> Praised be [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) who beta'd with skill and grace. <3
> 
> And Thank You to all my readers. Your comments make me happy. :)

The first time Bull sees Skyhold with its massive ramparts and tall battlements, he immediately thinks how his Tama would appreciate it all - she always admired good architecture, especially dwarven ruins and Qunandar's aqueducts, and her passion has definitely inspired Bull to pay attention to what kind of walls he's knocking down during his missions.

Skyhold is not dwarven, although there might be some dwarven influence here and there, but it is still well-built and damn impressive. It stands proud and stubborn amongst cloud-kissing mountains and booming waterfalls, guarding a narrow pass between Ferelden and Orlais, looking awfully important for a structure that has been abandoned for centuries. A weird thing, that. But then stranger things have happened, Bull supposes. Like how Solas of all people knew about its existence, for example.

The Inquisition spends the night camped outside the fortress walls. In the morning Cullen sends in a couple of scouts to check on the premises, and after getting the confirmation that the place is indeed empty and apparently safe, Adaar and his inner circle enter, Solas leading the way.

They walk slowly through the rustling sea of dry fallen leaves that have been piling up on the abandoned courtyard for many long years. When Solas stops, they all stop, and look around: at the massive walls of the main building still glittering with frost in this early hour; at the silent towers, and ancient trees. Bull looks too - but he is mainly keeping his eye on Solas: the elf is leaning heavily on his staff, and his expression, although he very much tries to hide it, is somewhere between wistful and anxious.

Once Bull is sure Solas is not immediately up to anything sinister, he glances at the fortress again. He has a hunch there is, or at least has been, something magical going on here - he gets that tingly feeling - but he doesn't get the sense of anything evil: there is no knot in his gut, no bad premonitions. The place feels decent at heart, and even the sun, that out here in the mountains normally appears almost too bright and sharp, seems gentler and warmer inside these walls.

So far so good then.

Cullen sends out the word that others are allowed to come in, and soon the courtyard is bustling with curious people. They walk around, first quiet and suspicious, not daring to quite believe where they are, but soon getting louder and excited; many of them are laughing out loud, and then look shocked, as if surprised by their own joy. It's all good. Bull can't remember the last time he's seen as much as a smile from anyone, and he's missed that.

”I want to see the inside,” Adaar declares, makes that stubborn face no one dares to say anything to, and without further ado begins to climb the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The scouts have left the tall double doors open, and so he walks right in, through the small vestibule to what is clearly the Throne Room.

”For fuck's sake,” Adaar says.

The room is huge, cold, and dark, and smells of old stone and times passed. In the far end of the hall, tall, dusty windows are letting in some dim light. Bull steps by Adaar and takes in the collapsed structures, sealed doorways, and clutter. Dorian, who has appeared from somewhere, marches past them, carefree as he pleases, and waves his hand impatiently: a cluster of sparks explodes across the room, and settles like a twinkling net of stars above their heads, lighting up the space. The mage lets out a dramatic sigh. ”Look at this derelict dump!”

”Don't worry, darling,” Madame de Fer follows him in her always immaculate silvery _tenue_ and the scary head piece that makes both Bull and Adaar twitch, ”there is definitely potential here. Good bones, so to speak.” She stops by Dorian, and purses her painted lips. ”I am thinking Orlesian style curtains.”

Dorian gasps.

 

***

 

Right from the beginning it is clear that making the fortress livable again is going to be a long process that requires lots of planning and organizing. Luckily there are some things they can start working on immediately, and everyone is eager to get to work: Bull commands the Chargers to help the workers with whatever they need, while he and Adaar concentrate on clearing the Throne Room from heavy clutter (as per Madame de Fer's friendly suggestion). Dorian is there too, offering loud and utterly useless advice about things he knows absolutely nothing about, and every now and then he clears rubble with his magic. When that happens, both Bull and Adaar move somewhere else. One can never be too careful.

”So,” Adaar says, and drops a large piece of timber on a pile they've been building. His long red braids swing along with his movements. ”You know him.” Bull has no doubt of who they are talking about.

”Met him in Val Royeaux once. I wouldn't say I know him.”

Adaar studies Dorian thoughtfully. The mage is standing by the throne, looking like an exotic flower or bird in the rainbow-colored light streaming through the now cleaned stained glass windows. He is making wild gestures and lecturing an incredulous-looking dwarf about the correct way to polish brass. As if polishing brass was on the top of their list of things to do right now. ”An interesting fellow.”

”That's one way to put it.”

Adaar stretches his arms, rolls his shoulder. ”I thought you liked him. You shared your tent with him, didn't you?” He is looking sort of cunning, teasing, perhaps, but Bull refuses to take the bait. He shrugs.

”For one night,” he says, and it's true: after that first night Dorian found a cot to sleep on amongst some soldiers, and Bull haven't yet decided whether he's disappointed or not. Adaar wipes off a veil's worth of spider webs stuck to his horns.

”Do you think I can trust him?”

Bull considers. He has learned some things, from Adaar, who's had a short talk with the mage, and from Dorian himself. And what he knows from before… ”He's a cocky pain in the ass, but I don't think he's a bad guy - even if he is a Vint. And he's really good with the magic shit, so I suppose he can be useful.”

Adaar nods, chews his lip. He has a small scar on the side where the canine is missing; Varric once pointed out how it's pretty similar to the one Cullen has, but not quite as dashing. ”He is awfully pretty,” he says. Bull snorts.

”That he is.”

The Spirit Boy who calls himself Cole appears in a dark corner nearby - or maybe he was there all along, who can tell? He is sitting cross-legged on the dusty stone floor, and studying Dorian with his pale eyes. ”He wished you had asked him to stay. He missed your hands, he was _so cold._ ”

”I think there's something to lift over there,” Bull says to Adaar, and points towards other side of the hall.

”Right,” Adaar grunts, and heads towards the pile of rubble. Bull is about to follow, turns to look at Cole though.

”So, uh,” he nods at a not-so-sturdy-looking beam hanging above Cole's head, ”that thing may fall down any moment, so you may want to move elsewhere as well. Just don't follow me, okay?”

Creepy or not, he wouldn't want the kid to get hurt.

 

***

 

One of the first places to clear out beside the Throne Room and the kitchen area, are the living quarters. Bull, who likes to keep an eye on people, chooses a room upstairs of Tavern. It has three entrances (or escape routes, as someone might see it), a hole in the ceiling, and a big sturdy bed frame that is easy to fix and make secure again. He puts in an order for a Qunari size mattress - the overworked Quartermaster gives him an evil eye - and takes a good look at the ceiling that should be patched. Will he ever come around actually doing something about it, is another question.

It is close to midnight when Bull finally retires. He lights a candle, bars the doors, and spreads his bedroll on the floor planks. Then he sits down, and pulls out his writing equipment.

He hasn't been able to send out any messages to his superiors since Haven was destroyed, but he trusts they are aware of some, if not most, of what happened. He pens down everything he can remember starting from closing the Breach in exhausting detail, digging out old notes, and even drawing a small map. Once he reaches the point where Dorian appears, however, he stops.

Bull has already made a personal file for Dorian, just like he did for everyone else: described him thoroughly, physically and character-wise, and then added little tidbits he's picked up here and there: enjoys Fereldan beer, hates cold, is disliked by the blacksmith. For whatever reason he also wrote down silly, worthless things like 'has a great smile' and 'would look lovely in red'. But, then again, it's okay, he has given himself a permission to like people, as long as any attachment doesn't get in the way of his work. And he does like a good many people. His young lieutenant above all of them.

But just as was the case with Krem, Bull finds he really, really dislikes the idea of telling Ben-Hassrath about Dorian. Their initial meeting in the wilds was pretty insignificant, so he had an excuse not to report it. And so he didn't. But now that Dorian is part of the Inquisition…

Bull groans, and presses his quill against the smooth parchment harder than necessary.

_\- - a young Tevinter altus named Dorian Pavus showed up unexpectedly, bringing a warning for the approaching danger._

Bull goes on to describe Dorian and his actions so far - much more vaguely than he usually does - and points out how he thinks the mage's intentions are good. (Because he does think that.) Then he hesitates again, but writes it anyway: _Pavus finds me desirable._

It's the kind of information he knows his superiors like. And if there's a little voice in the back of Bull's mind whispering that whatever happened between him and Dorian is none of their business, he silences it immediately because it is absolutely their business.

Bull is just about to reach the end of his report, when he hears light footsteps approaching, and then there's a soft knock on the door. The only person who would dare to disturb him at this hour would be Krem. But this is not Krem. Bull hides his paperwork, steps to the door, and pulls it open with more strength than necessary.

As if summoned by his thoughts, he sees Dorian standing in the dark, silent staircase, holding a lantern of all things - an appeasing gesture Bull doesn't miss - and smiling innocently. His eyes sparkle black and silver in the shadows moving on and off his face. ”Good evening, The Iron Bull. May I come in?”

”I'm busy.” Bull is trying to sound polite but stern. Dorian scoffs.

”In the middle of the night? All by yourself? Don't be silly.” He slips into the room under Bull's arm in a nonchalant manner of a privileged person who has been free to enter pretty much wherever whenever all his life. He walks straight to the bedroll, and sits down. He eyes the premises casually. ”Well. I hate to say it, but this one is going to need a lot of work.”

Bull closes the door, and turns to look at the intrusive mage. ”You're here to give me decoration advice?” Dorian laughs. It might be a genuine laughter. With Dorian it's hard to tell sometimes.

”As much as you might need it - no.”

”Then I take it you want something.”

”I do.” Dorian smirks. ”And so do you.”

Bull knows he should say no. He knows he should throw the mage out right now, and finish his report; he shouldn’t have opened the door in the first place - but then Dorian flutters his long lashes, and his lips part, and he has such a gorgeous mouth. Plush. Soft. Silky, shiny. Bull thinks how he wouldn't mind having it wrapped around something of his, and his damned body responds immediately.

”Why don't you come here?” Dorian purrs, and draws his polished nails across the woolly blanket. Bull steps casually towards him, but gets stopped when he’s about to reach the bedroll. “No - stay right there,” Dorian commands. 

The mage sits up on his knees, and lays his steady hands on Bull's thighs. He studies the fabric of Bull's pants. ”These are, without a doubt, the most hideous piece of clothing I have ever seen. And I've seen some questionable fashion choices at Archon's annual garden party, where people are supposed to dress up as flowers.”

”Thanks,” Bull says.

”I went as Black Lotus one year. It was a great success.”

Bull pictures Dorian wrapped in tight black silk, wearing onyx and garnet jewelry, black boots, and perhaps some sparkling black eyeshadow, and the thought makes his cock twitch. Dorian hums, pleased.

”I see you like the idea.”

“I might.”

”You are awfully short tonight compared to your usual chatty self.”

Bull knows he is: as distracting as Dorian's presence is, his mind is still with his work. ”You came here to talk?”

Dorian laughs again, and takes Bull's fingers. “No. I suppose I didn’t.” He kisses the rough knuckles softly, and glides his tongue around the claws and maimed joints, even sucks Bull’s thumb in his mouth for a short moment - a turn on if there ever was one - and then he unbuckles Bull's belt, and lets those pants fall.

Bull closes his eye. The cool air whiffs over his skin; Dorian's hands, blessedly warm, squeeze his hips - and then the tip of Dorian’s cold nose pokes at his balls. Bull starts. ”Hey!”

”Oh, hush,” Dorian continues his administrations, undisturbed: he nuzzles closer, mouths the bottom of Bull's sensitive scrotum _\- so warm -_ but when he tries to reach up, he can't quite reach the actual object of his desire. He makes a displeased sound. ”Oh, this is ridiculous, you are far too tall. Lie down, please.”

Bull's hands are itching to grab the mage and throw him on the bed roll, face down - but of course he won't do that. Instead, he does as Dorian asks, and lies down. He probably shouldn't do that either but he is hard, and Dorian is there, warm and beautiful, and the air between them is vibrating with tension. Dorian pulls off Bull's pants, gathered down around his ankles now, spreads Bull's legs, and settles between them. He leans down and presses his cheek against Bull's round belly for a moment.

”You are warm,” he mumbles, and bites gently into the silver skin. It feels nice, friendly, and absolutely unbearable, and once again Bull doesn't know what to do or think. Despite Dorian’s sweet demeanor he has a nasty feeling this is about to go down the same way it did in Val Royeaux, and he'd rather not go through with that experience again. He loved the sex - even if it didn't happen the way he prefers - but he didn't enjoy the way the session ended at all. He likes Dorian, and he wants to do well for the people he likes: he wants to be able to give them a good hug afterwards, to make sure they are okay and that there are no hard feelings, and then send them on their way satisfied and - hopefully - walking a bit funny.

Bull raises his hand, and tentatively touches Dorian's silky hair with his fingertips. Dorian freezes.

Bull pulls his hand back, not too fast, so as not to scare him. ”Sorry.”

_Doesn't trust me._ That's fine. Except that it's not fine. It's wrong, and it's damn confusing combined with this weird tenderness Dorian keeps showering him with: talk about mixed signals - but then Bull loses the thought, because suddenly his dick is unceremoniously lifted, and its head is surrounded by tight, wet heat as Dorian sucks him in his mouth.

Bull gasps, overwhelmed by the sensation. Dorian makes some swift, maddening thing with his tongue, repeats it a couple of times - and pulls off with an exaggerated smack. He watches Bull under his lashes. ”Want me to go on?” Bull swallows.

”Oh, I don't know. I suppose, since you started already.”

”Perhaps I should make you beg.”

”I am not going to beg for it, Dorian.”

The mage draws a slow circle around Bull's navel with his shiny nail. ”I bet I could make you.”

”I bet I could find someone else to suck my cock.” Dorian smirks at that. Bull smiles. ”But I'd rather it be you.” Dorian pats his belly, and kisses the tip of his dick affectionately.

”Excellent.” He kisses the tip again. ”Such a beautiful thing,” he sighs, apparently forgetting all about the time he called Bull's dick ridiculous, and gets to work.

Dorian begins slowly, teasingly - but he knows not to make it too long, and soon enough he is sucking Bull with slow, ecstatic vigor, moaning loudly as he goes. He swirls his tongue and twists his fingers, takes Bull deeply in his throat, all the while cupping and feeling his balls gently. He is fucking _fantastic_ , and with a distant, hazy sting Bull realizes this is probably the best goddamn blowjob he has ever had: not only because it is technically superb, but because Dorian really, really enjoys giving it. There is something almost endearing about his enthusiasm.

_Please_ , Bull thinks, and he could swear he has never begged before. His hands are twitching, aching, but he keeps them down, just like he did in that small room in the Orlesian inn, and lets Dorian do his thing undisturbed, skillfully and sweetly. The mage keeps him right on the edge, almost letting him fall over, but not quite, and soon he is so gone he can't think straight.

_Please_

\- and then Dorian allows him to come. A crushing wave of pleasure hits Bull like a hammer: for a few bittersweet seconds he is burning with such immense satisfaction he thinks his head is about to explode - he is floating, pulsing - and then, always too soon, the moment begins to fade, and he starts to drift and come down. There’s that strange, quickly vanishing moment of immense clarity and peace he usually experiences right after the orgasm - and then it is all over. His body feels like his own again; his heart, still pounding in his ears, begins to slow down; his breathing evens out.

Dazed, Bull opens his eye. He finds Dorian staring at him, intrigued. His eyes are dark with dilated pupils, his lovely, swollen mouth is glistening, his mustache in disarray. Bull makes a weak sound, and brings his fingers to touch Dorian's lips.

”Such a good, _good_ boy,” he whispers. Dorian pushes his hand away, and in a dramatic manner, throws himself partly on Bull's chest, and offers his neck.

”Mark me again.”

”What?”

_”Mark me.”_ Dorian presses his warm, pulsing throat against Bull's teeth, and in that specific moment something dawns on Bull: as much as Dorian doesn’t trust Bull with intimacy, he absolutely trusts Bull with his life. 

Oddly moved, but also troubled by the thought, Bull lets out a growl, and sucks, hard, almost breaking the skin. Dorian gasps, and lets his head fall back. Only then does Bull realize he is masturbating.

This won't do: this just won't do. Bull wraps his hand gently around Dorian's - but, of course, Dorian is not having it. Annoyed, Bull gives up and keeps his touches to himself, but he continues nevertheless to suck and worry Dorian's throat. Perhaps he is not getting what he needs, but at least Dorian is getting what he wants. 

Soon enough the mage’s eyes turn over in his head, and he comes on Bull's chest with a violent tremor, pushing his own fist into his mouth in a doomed attempt to muffle a cry rising out of him. He falls against Bull’s side; Bull presses his face into the dark, wavy hair, and manages to take one quick, deep breath, before Dorian is already climbing up on his feet.

Bull lies still, and watches silently as Dorian tucks himself back in his fancy pants with shaky fingers, and pulls out a pale blue silk handkerchief. He pats his mouth clean, rearranges his mustache, and smacks his lips. He makes a face. “Ugh. Have you, by any chance, been eating asparagus lately?”

Bull ignores his comment. He studies the mark on Dorian’s throat. It looks angry black in the flickering light. As if Dorian is… injured. Bull feels an uncomfortable sting, and makes a decision not to mark Dorian again. Not like this.

”You trust me with your throat, but not with your dick,” he says. Dorian gives him a look.

”Yes.” 

Bull waits for him to say something else to that, but he doesn’t. He picks up his lantern, and performs a perfect Tevinter bow. ”Thank you, The Iron Bull. It was a pleasure.” 

”You know, you don't have to run away like that. You could stay for a moment.”

Dorian hesitates. “Unfortunately I need to check out some manuscripts I found in the library, and as it is, I am not much of a cuddler. So.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You cuddled me all night in my tent a couple of weeks ago.” Bull deliberately uses a deep, rumbling voice he knows has an effect on Dorian. The mage blushes: just a bit, but it’s there.

“I was - cold.”

“That’s it?”

“If I get cold again, I’ll be sure to stop by.”

Bull spreads his massive arms to the side, opens himself up. “It’s pretty cold now.”

Dorian looks at him with widened eyes, wavers - then he turns abruptly, and walks out the door without a word, disappearing in the dark stairway. 

_Shit._

Bull lets out a frustrated groan, and stares at the ceiling. 

It probably shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. It probably shouldn’t bother him at all. But the thing is, Dorian keeping his distance does, indeed, bother him. A lot.

Of course, there are reasons, as there always are. The way they initially met didn’t exactly lay a great foundation for friendship. Them being supposedly enemies doesn’t help much - nor does the fact that Dorian comes from a society where, in order to survive the upper echelons, one can’t trust anybody, not even one’s closest family members.

And yet Bull has the strangest feeling that Dorian wants to trust _him_ : not only in a way where he trusts Bull not to tear his throat open, but in other ways too. The longing Bull sensed in him when they met in Val Royeaux is still there, intense, desperate: Dorian is looking for something. He may not know exactly what it is, and he is afraid, clearly, but he is looking, and he wants to trust, so bad.

He shouldn’t, of course - especially not Bull. Because that would be stupid. 

Almost as stupid as Bull’s fundamental need to be trusted. 

Bull sighs. He must stop thinking about it. That’s all there is to it. Stop worrying over it, stop acting as if this thing with Dorian was important, as if Dorian was special somehow.

Except that... Dorian is special. Almost the same way Krem is special. But then, of course, in the end even Krem shouldn’t be special.

_Fuck._

Bull groans, and closes his eye. He feels Dorian's seed cold and sticky on his chest, but he doesn't wipe it off, not yet. He wants to keep smelling the sweet, sharp scent of him, imagine for a moment he is still there.

So stupid.

Bull squeezes his hand into a tight fist, and hits the floor so hard the planks make a cracking sound, and a piece of ancient plastering falls off the wall.

 

***

 

In the morning they all gather in the Throne Room to have some breakfast. As soon as Bull sits down at the long table, positioning himself strategically between Varric and Blackwall so as not to leave free room on either side, Adaar smells the semen on him. It's damn embarrassing is what it is.

_”Really?”_ he says in Qunlat, his nostrils fluttering, and gives Bull one of his long suffering stares. He is sitting a good five feet and two people away from him, and Bull has cleaned himself as well as he could without taking a bath, but…

Bull shrugs. _”Sorry, boss.”_

_”You fucked the Vint.”_

Bull picks up an apple from a tray, and bites into it. He thinks about Dorian's throat. _”I did.”_

_”And that was smart?”_

_”No. But he came to me, and he's pretty. You said it yourself.”_ Bull smirks apologetically. Adaar pinches the bridge of his nose.

”I find it rather impolite to use language no one else in the company understands,” Josephine points out delicately. She is sitting across from Adaar, looking prim as ever in her sunny tightly buttoned outfit. Her small mouth is curved into an ever-so-slightly disapproving pout. Adaar nods.

”My apologies, Ambassador.” He reaches over, effortlessly lifts a huge kettle most humans would find hard, if not impossible, to lift with one hand, and pours her some tea. Josephine stares at his sinewy, tattooed hand, as he fills her half-empty cup with fragrant liquid.

”Oh,” she says weakly. Bull studies her suddenly rosy cheeks and glossy eyes. _Oh,_ indeed.

Sera enters the room, yawning, and her straw-yellow hair looking like a tornado went through it. She makes herself room between Bull and Blackwall, even though there is absolutely no room there, steals Blackwall's sandwich, and gives Bull a dirty glance. ”Yeah so just so that you know you are a fucking bad neighbor.” Bull frowns.

”I am?”

Sera grabs Bull's mug and drinks his tea. ”I don't give a flying frig whatcha doing in your room as long as I don't have to listen to it. Get it? Go jousting, bang their brains out, I-do-not-care. But you made me listen, didn't you? Moan, please, moan, groan, moan, _scream_ \- and what did you go punching the floor for? Fucking rude.”

”Oh,” Varric says. He turns to Blackwall, who is trying to look like he is not listening. ”You owe me a sovereign: he did fuck someone the first night here.”

Blackwall grunts, and gives a worried glance to Josephine, clearly thinking this conversation might be too much for her ladylike sensibilities. Lady Ambassador, however, is sitting still and nonchalant with an air of a person who has heard things much more vulgar and scandalous.

Bull laughs, can't help it; and right at that moment Dorian walks in. He looks wonderful: radiant and well-rested. His mouth appears a bit poutier than usual, and he is wearing a long, rather decadent-looking ruby-red scarf around his neck. ”Good morning,” he chirps, and squeezes himself between Bull and Varric. ”How is everyone this beautiful morning?”

Varric turns to Blackwall again. ”You owe me two sovereigns.”

 

***

 

A week after their arrival to Skyhold, on another sunny day with high skies and heavy wind, all the people are gathered out in the yard.

Adaar looks openly suspicious, glances at the crowd and the soldiers standing in formation, but the advisers meet him with a smile on their lips, and then Cassandra takes him up to the ramparts where everyone can see them, but no one can hear.

They have a negotiation of some sort, and Bull would pay money to be able to hear what they are saying. But since there is no way for him to sneak up there unnoticed, he positions himself under a huge, leafy tree, and waits. Krem stands by him, silent and sharp-eyed.

They don't have to wait for long. Soon Leliana appears like a grey ghost, carrying a fancy ceremonial sword, and things move swiftly from there. Adaar is declared Inquisitor - not a shocking turn of events, exactly, but surely a welcomed one - and even though he is not much of a speaker, he delivers a short speech that is apparently deemed quite inspirational, judging by the reception the enthusiastic crowd gives him. The troops cheer, the people applaud, and Adaar stands above them tall and imposing, the sword he will never use shining like a flame in his hand. The Anchor on his other hand seems to glow a bit brighter for a moment.

Bull is watching it all, heedful. Krem by his side keeps making faces, but doesn't say anything.

”What?” Bull asks. Krem scratches his ear, as he tends to do when he is uncomfortable.

”I was just thinking how he never wanted any of this.” He makes a noncommittal sound. ”Then again, I don't know… how many of us get what we want - or want what we get anyway?”

Bull frowns. He is about to say something - something serious, because as much as he jokes around with Krem, they can talk about serious stuff - when Varric steps by them, and clears his throat.

”Yours truly is about to throw a tournament of Wicked Grace to honor his Inquisitorialness tonight,” he states in his warm, velvety baritone. ”You coming?” Bull grins.

”Of course I'm coming.” Varric laughs.

”Of course you are coming; but I meant your good lieutenant here.”

”Sure,” Krem says, and stands straighter. ”I'll play.”

”He sucks at Wicked Grace,” Bull says. Krem rolls his eyes, but since it's true, he doesn't argue. Varric pats his arm.

”Worry not. You can't possibly be as bad as our resident Grey Warden.” He glances at Dorian, who is standing alone under a shady archway on the other side of the yard, keeping his distance from what he probably considers a mob. ”I wonder if Sparkler there plays. He seems like the gambling type.”

Bull catches Dorian's eye for a moment; the mage blinks slowly, then looks pointedly away. ”Oh I think he might be a player.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deep gratitude goes to ever sweet [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan), who is a paragon among betas. <3 <3 <3
> 
> I'd like to apologize to my Inquisitor for all the stupid banana jokes. *looks vaguely ashamed*

”But shouldn't it be called _Inquisitor's_ Rest?” Bull asks, as the serving girl puts the tankard in front of him. She smiles teasingly, and leans down; a shiny cascade of copper curls falls on Bull's shoulder, and he gets a not-so-accidental view of the ample cleavage.

”I didn't name the tavern, handsome.”

Bull winks at her, and tastes his beer. It's kind of warm but not half bad for Fereldan stuff. ”I would've named it something badass. Like... The Loaded Dragon. Something like that.” The girl shrugs.

”I guess they didn't want to go changing the name since they painted the sign already.”

Sera, who's harassing Krem and trying (in vain) to suggest that he should sew stuffed bees instead of nugs, glances at them. ”The sign is _stupid_. Come on. Andraste carrying a Qunari?” She scoffs. ”Ridiculous, she'd be way too small for that. Maybe if it was a baby Qunari, but an adult male? Pfft!”

”It is a metaphor,” Blackwall notes patiently from beside her. Josephine across the table opens her mouth to elaborate on the issue, but Sera cuts her off.

”Well it's a friggin stupid meta _bore_.” Blackwall laughs, and Sera grins at him. ”Yeah? Thought so. Stupid.” She looks around. ”Still, the tavern is not too bad, is it?”

She is not wrong. Despite the sign and somewhat illogical name, the tavern is actually coming along nicely: the carpenters have hastily put together some long tables and chairs, and the stairs that were earlier a bit wobbly have been repaired. In order to celebrate the appointment of Inquisitor the whole place has been aired, cleaned, and lit with glowing torches. There’s even a cheerfully crackling fire in the fireplace. 

”The bartender’s kinda grumpy,” Blackwall muses. Krem snags the stuffed nug he's rotating in his hands, and returns the small wooden horse he, himself, has been examining.

”Well, the same could be said about some other folks around here. Grumpy or not, the man knows his shit.” Krem pauses minutely. ”The rest of the staff seems nice too.”

“Like the bard?” Bull asks. Krem sets a nonchalant expression on his face.

“Yes, like the bard. Why not? She has a good voice.”

Bull grins. It hasn't escaped him that Krem keeps eyeing the pretty brunette with particular interest, but he chooses not to tease his lieutenant about it further: Krem is in a touchy mood, which means he could easily turn pissy. Pissy Krem is all kinds of exhausting.

”By the way, Chief, did you talk to the Champion yet?” Krem asks. Bull shakes his head.

”Nah.”

”He looks like a bear,” Sera snorts. ”Except funnier.”

To everyone's shock, Garret Hawke showed up in Skyhold right after Adaar had been declared Inquisitor. Apparently Varric had sent out the word, and apparently he never mentioned to anyone that he had - or that he was aware of the Champion's whereabouts in the first place - and apparently Cassandra is after his head now. The dwarf has stayed in the tavern ever since his friend's arrival; a wise move, although Bull wouldn't put it past the Seeker to strangle the dwarf in public. The Champion, after spending a couple of hours with Adaar, has finally joined Varric as well.

Bull eyes Hawke inconspicuously across the room. An interesting fellow. Ever since Bull read through the Ben-Hassrath reports, as well as Varric's ridiculous book, he's had a certain image of the Champion. He expected someone loud and robust, someone about as tactful and delicate as a hammer, and sure, Hawke seems like that - but then he also seems oddly charming. He has dark twinkling eyes that manage to look both cheerful and sad at the same time, and people are clearly fascinated by him: almost everyone in the tavern keeps staring, and the bravest ones keep sending him drinks. Varric looks at him like he's a paragon of some sort.

”So how about that game, dwarf?” Bull calls. His booming voice carries easily over the crowd. Varric turns, and smirks at him. 

”We'll be right there, Tiny.”

Hawke gives Bull a slow look over the rim of his tankard. Varric must've told him that Bull, unlike Adaar, is a Qunari, and considering Hawke's history with the Qunari... oh well. Wait and see.

Varric and Hawke join them a good fifteen minutes later. The smiling dwarf sets two bottles of good brandy in the center of the table, gaining a round of applause. Hawke immediately grabs one of them.

”Champion,” Bull says. Hawke nods.

“Iron Bull.” He pulls out the stopper, and pours a quarter of the bottle's contents into Bull's still half full tankard.

”Hawke, you savage!” Varric shrieks. ”What are you doing with my good Antivan brandy?! And in front of Lady Montilyet!”

Hawke makes a sheepish face at Josephine. ”Pardon me, my lady Ambassador.” 

“And now apologize to Bull.”

Bull, who, uncharacteristically, is not quite sure what to make of this display, decides to laugh it off: ”It's okay, I've had this particular poison before.”

”Which just goes to prove that you are both savages.” Varric saves what's left of the bottle, and without further ado begins to describe an unfortunate yet hilarious incident a few years back involving Hawke, a bottle of Abyssal Peach, and Aveline Vallen's pants. Hawke joins him enthusiastically: they end up arguing over some detail or another, and just when Bull thinks there will be no end to their bickering, they get interrupted by some people cheering and whistling. Everyone turns to look.

”Well, shit,” Varric says. Josephine lets out a choking sound.

Adaar and Dorian Pavus have entered the tavern. Instead of his usual outfit, Inquisitor is wearing a beautifully embroidered red coat that reaches down to his knees; his horn caps are polished to perfection, and his hair is down, enveloping him like a shiny veil of garnet red silk - an interesting contrast to his rugged face. The sight is as impressive as it is unexpected, and they don't have to see Dorian's beaming smile to guess who is behind this look.

Adaar ignores all the ruckus around him, and heads straight to Bull's table. ”Evening,” he says shortly, grabs a chair, and sits down.

”Good evening,” Dorian articulates, bows to the ladies present (Sera giggles; Josephine looks pleased), and follows the example. Never one to be overshadowed, he’s wrapped in robes of silver-green velvet and Royal Sea Silk, and he smells of fresh grass with hints of honey. It's fucking delicious, like spring. Bull takes a deep enjoyable breath.

”Looking very handsome tonight, Abananaan,” Varric says innocently.

The party falls silent. The awkward moment stretches, then Sera, always first to react to anything even slightly amusing, bursts into a hysterical cackle, and Hawke joins her.

”It's _Aban Anaan_ ,” Adaar states calmly, and takes one of Varric's brandy bottles. Sera leans her forehead against the table, apparently suffocating.

”Ba- your name is _a banan-_ ”

Josephine clicks her tongue. ”Sera. Please.” She turns to Adaar, lays her tiny hand on his arm. ”I apologize, Inquisitor. And may I say,” her eyes seem to go hazy for a moment, ”you are looking wonderful tonight.” Adaar's brows knit.

”Thank you, I guess.” He waves his hand at Dorian's direction. ”He says I have to look _appropriate_ now that I'm officially the head of you lot, but I don't know. This coat is kinda silly. Tight.”

”That's the best part,” Dorian purrs. Adaar rolls his eyes, and covers the smile pulling at the side of his mouth in a goblet of brandy. Sera, who looks like she's about to fall on the floor, begins to laugh out loud again.

”Yeah but he is - he's - he is a bana- ”

Bull grabs her, and pulls her back up. ”Alright, enough of that.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. ”Although… I've got to say, this reminds me of how much I miss Par Vollen bananas. Did I ever tell you about those?” Adaar gives him an eye. Bull shrugs. ”I'm just saying. They are bigger, less squishy, and bendier there.” This causes another wave of laughter. Blackwall looks suspicious.

”You're talking about the fruit, right? Cause otherwise I don't need to know.”

”Blackwall only wants to talk about peaches,” Sera giggles.

“Oh, shut up, Fuzzhead,” Blackwall bumps her affectionately with his elbow.

Hawke takes two long swigs of brandy, and turns his attention to Dorian. The mage is arranging his hair and smoothing the fabric of his outfit, trying to look like he's not amused. ”I am going to guess you're the one Varric calls Sparkler.”

_”Ah,”_ Dorian says sharply, without looking at him. Hawke tilts his head.

”No offense. But I mean, you are very - sparkly. Pretty. And you smell good too.” He flashes a smile. ”I'm Garret Hawke.”

”I gathered as much.” Dorian consents to glancing at him, sighs. ”Fine then. Dorian Pavus at your service. _That_ is my name.”

”At my service, huh? And what kind of services do you provide, exactly?” Hawke leers; Varric lets out a long-suffering groan.

”Stone take me.”

”Well, first of all, I could introduce you to some soap and mustache wax.”

”Ouch.”

Dorian ignores the Champion who is now pressing his hand against his chest, as if mortally wounded, and turns to Bull. ”And how are you this evening, the Iron Bull?”

”Never better.” Bull eyes Dorian's outfit. ”Is that for me?” he asks, although he hates how it sounds, sort of semi-possessive, and he has no idea why he says it. Dorian's cheeks get a bit of color.

”For you? Don't flatter yourself.”

”If you ask me - ” Hawke begins, but Varric interrupts him by slamming a deck of cards on the table.

”Alright, folks. Enough of idle talk: I came here to play, so let's play.” He looks around, grins. ”Who wants to deal?”

 

***

 

Bull is good at Wicked Grace. Not as good as he is at chess (he is very, very good at chess), but he's pretty sure he could beat most of those present if he wanted to. But, as it is, he doesn't want to, not tonight.

They play, drink, and talk about whatever: beer, music, horses, weapons. Anything but politics and the End of the World. Krem tells some terrible mercenary jokes; Dorian tells about the time one of his teachers made a sloth demon clean up all the circle’s bathrooms (which everyone finds more creepy than funny: one probably has to be a mage to appreciate it); and Varric tells another tale from Kirkwall. It's about the dwarf who thought he could buy the Gaatlok formula from the Arishok. Bull listens, amused. He knows the story, but it's interesting to hear it in detail.

”Such a fool,” Hawke guffaws. ”I don't know why he thought that the Arishok, who was stubborn as a damn ox, would go for it.” He pauses, glances at Bull. ”Uh.”

Bull shakes his head. ”Don't worry about it. He _was_ stubborn as an ox.” From the corner of his eye he can see Dorian’s body language turning stiff and unsure. Hawke grunts.

”I did respect the guy though. Even if he - I mean, the way things went was just - ahhh shit. I should just shut up, shouldn't I?”

”Not a bad idea,” Varric nips a piece of invisible dust off his famed chest hair, and glares at Hawke pretty much the same way Krem glares at Bull when he’s done something presumably stupid. Bull leans back, puts a smile on his face.

”Hey, I said don't worry about it. What happened, happened. Not my place to judge.”

”To be honest, for a while I was kind of worried the Qunari might send someone after me.”

”Hawke.“ Bull looks him in the eye. “If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”

Hawke frowns, thoughtful. Adaar clears his throat. ”So, speaking of the Qunari, there’s something I've been wondering...”

They start talking about the Qun. Casually, carefully. Bull doesn't usually touch the topic unless someone specifically asks, and never in public like this. But as long as the conversation stays on a general level, and doesn't go into Ben-Hassrath specifics, he’s fine with it.

Adaar is blatantly curious. The amusing thing is, he doesn't want to be, and every time he asks another question, there's this disdained, offended look on his face, but he keeps asking nevertheless, and Bull keeps replying patiently. He knows the Vashoth, no matter how much they've taught to hate the Qun, are often deeply fascinated by it.

Dorian and Krem stay quiet during the conversation. They are listening intently though, even if they’re pretending to concentrate on Sera’s shenanigans, as she’s giving Blackwall outrageous suggestions of ways he should decorate his beard so as to look ‘as fancy as Dorian and A Banana’.

When the talk turns to family and partners, or rather the lack of, Bull brings up the Tamassrans specialized in sex. He compares the thing to going to a healer, and the reactions vary from amused to disapproving.

”Well that sounds very practical,” Varric says. ”Very Qunari like.” 

Adaar slides his claw along the edge of his goblet. The Anchor hand is resting on his knee under the table: he’s reluctant to show it to anyone these days, and has even started wearing a glove on it. A great idea as far as Bull is concerned. ”You think that's a good system?”

Bull shrugs. ”It's efficient. But honestly? It's more fun down here.” He can feel Dorian looking straight at him now. He glances at the mage, and the moment their eyes meet, everything else in the room seems to disappear: all there is is Dorian's beautiful face and the almost shy smile vibrating on his lips. Bull finds he is beginning to feel warmer than he was a moment ago.

Krem grabs Bull's arm. ”Enough of this Qun shit, Chief, let's get some drinks.” Bull blinks.

”What?”

”Come on. Give me a hand.”

”So,” Krem says when they have parked themselves by the counter. He leans in to accept a tankard from the severe-looking dwarf bartender. ”Something going on between you and the Vint?”

”Why?” Bull tries to look nonchalant, but Krem's tight expression makes it clear he's not in the mood for nonsense. He sighs. ”Nothing much. We may have had sex once or twice.” Krem rolls his eyes.

”Yes, obviously you’ve had sex: he's sad and pretty, and you can't resist that shit - but that's not what I'm talking about.”

”Then what _are_ you talking about?”

Krem seems displeased. ”I don't know, Chief. There's something funny here.”

”You afraid he's one of those Venatori after all?”

”No, I mean… well. You keep looking at him.”

”I keep looking at everyone, Krempuff.”

Krem groans. ”Yeah. But you are _looking_.” Krem's copper eyes lock into Bull's, stern, serious. ”Chief, I've got to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Are you having a crush?”

Bull bursts into booming laughter. ”What?”

”Cause if you are, I wish you had chosen someone less Vinty.”

”Krem.” Bull lays his heavy hand on Krem's shoulder. ”I am a Qunari.”

”Not a very good one.”

”I don't have crushes.”

”Okay. Okay, just checking.” Krem turns to look back at Dorian across the room. The mage is flirting with Hawke and Adaar now, showering them with his attention equally: in accordance with his nickname, he is practically sparkling, and both men are staring at him, reluctantly mesmerized. Krem clicks his tongue. ”Just look at that.” Bull smiles.

”Oh, leave him be. He's rarely this happy, and he means no harm.” He knows he sounds too soft while saying it. Krem glares at him - precisely the way Varric glares at Hawke.

 

***

 

After Varric and Sera both have won a round, Josephine, who has so far settled for just watching the game, expresses her desire to 'try it out', even though she is 'not sure she remembers how to play'.

Bull immediately has his suspicions, because Lady Ambassador, as sweet as she is, is almost as sneaky as Leliana. He gets proven right, when she wins the next two rounds all too effortlessly. 

“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you, Sera,” she chirps cheerfully, as she gathers all the coins in front of her, and starts piling them into tidy, systematic towers. Her cheeks have achieved a nice rosy glow from the wine; she has even loosened the silk scarf around her neck a bit, and undone the top button of her blouse.

“Damn,” Adaar says, and rubs his face. He doesn’t seem too upset though. Varric weighs his considerably lightened money purse in his hand. 

”Josephine! Such… cruelty. Who knew.”

”I knew,” Bull says, and gives the smirking lady Montilyet a wink. Varric laughs.

”Ben-Hassrath training pays off again, huh?”

Bull is about to say something clever, when he notices Dorian's face. The mage has gone quiet and pale. His hand, reaching for a bottle of wine, has stopped in the middle of movement.

Fuck. Bull bites his lip. _Fuck._

Dorian sniffs, slowly pulls his hand back like a man who has realized he's about to touch something explosive. ”Ah,” he says, way too casually, ”I never knew you used to be with…. that faction.”

Bull tries to quickly think how to go for this: he hasn’t told Dorian, he should have, of course, but damn it all he never did, there was never a good moment, or so he keeps telling himself, and now -

”Used to?” Blackwall wipes beer foam off his beard. ”He still is.”

Dorian blinks. And again. His lips tremble, then curve into a tight smile. ”Oh.” He looks anywhere but Bull. ”How - interesting.” Varric glances at him.

”You didn't know?”

”No, I wasn't aware, no.” Dorian pushes his still half-full goblet to the side with a slow precise movement, and stands up. ”Well. It's been fun.” He straightens his shirt. ”Thank you all. I believe I am about to retire.”

”Already?” Adaar looks disappointed. Dorian gives him a radiant smile.

”Come now, Inquisitor. I need my beauty sleep. This - ” he gestures around his face - ”doesn't just happen. Besides you'll have the pleasure of my company again tomorrow.” He bows to the ladies again, turns on his heels, and walks out of the tavern.

”Really now?” Varric says in a scolding voice. ” _No one_ told him?”

 

***

 

Going after someone after they've just learned you belong to a notorious group of spies and enforcers may not be the smartest thing Bull has ever done, but he does it anyway.

As the tavern door closes behind him, the world turns cold, dark, and silent. The sounds of laughter and music fade, the frosty ground crackles under his boots, as he moves with purposefully heavy steps. He reaches Dorian half-way across the yard.

”Dorian...”

The mage spins around, his hand raised. An angry ball of red fire hisses on his fingertips. ”Not one step closer, _The Iron Bull_.”

Bull stops. Dorian points a wavering finger at him, his voice trembling. ”You are Ben-Hassrath.”

”I am,” Bull says. He is trying to look as harmless as possible, partly because he doesn't want Dorian to be afraid, partly because he'd rather not have his face burnt off. But it’s not easy looking harmless standing in shadows when you’re nearly eight feet tall and have massive horns. Dorian takes a step back, away from him. It probably shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

”A spy. An assassin!”

Bull softens his voice, keeps it steady. ”I am only here for information, and to offer my help.” 

”You are - you are - ” Dorian doesn't seem to able to find the words. He squeezes his hand into a fist, and the flames burst through in between his fingers. Bull ventures to make a slow calming gesture.

”Dorian. There’s no need for this.”

”You never thought to mention this?!”

”I was going to.” Bull knows it sounds weak, meaningless. 

” _Fasta vass!_ You said you are a mercenary!”

”I am a mercenary.”

”You are a _fake_ mercenary!”

”Dorian.”

”You are a lying, manipulative fake mercenary, and I will never talk to you again!”

”Dorian.” Bull feels like there’s a stone in his stomach. ”Let’s talk. Please.”

The mage visibly hesitates, but only for a moment: his eyes flash, and he storms away.

Bull lets out a frustrated groan, and looks up at the cold night sky. The Greater Moon is staring back down at him, indifferent as ever. It looks the same it did the night he found Dorian in the field, surrounded by corpses and pale flowers. He can smell the magic and smoke in his nostrils again.

He wonders if Dorian hates him more now than he did back then.

The tavern door opens behind him: a flash of golden light reflects from a pool of frozen water beside him, a faint sound of cheerful voices flows out, then abates again. Footsteps approach. Adaar.

He stops by Bull. He doesn't say anything: Adaar's good like that. The warmth of his huge body radiates against Bull's arm, and he smells of beer and something soothingly familiar. Bull closes his eye. With a little imagination he could think he's standing next to one of his old comrades again, and suddenly a bitter longing bites at his heart.

”Fuck,” he says out loud. Adaar hums.

”Wanna come back in? There’s more brandy or so I hear.”

”In a bit, boss.”

”Don't' go after him. He'll fry your ass.”

Bull laughs, not very cheerfully. ”I know.”

They stand side by side in the darkness, looking at the stars. A guard moves up on the ramparts, somewhere in the distance a wolf howls at the moon. Humans probably couldn't hear that.

_”Come on,”_ Adaar says, almost gently.

It doesn't dawn on Bull before he is stepping back in Herald's Rest that Adaar had said the words in Qunlat. A small thing, perhaps, but it warms Bull’s heart. As does the sight of Krem, who’s standing right by the door, waiting for him.

“Inquisitor didn’t let me go after you,” he says. He pats Bull’s back. “I see it didn’t go too bad. You still have your eye and the harness for your man bosoms is unscorched.” Bull wraps his elbow around Krem’s neck, and tousles his hair, ignoring the indignant screeches.

“Fuck you, Krem.” He lands a big kiss on top of his lieutenant’s head. “You’re buying me a drink.”

 

***

 

Three days pass. Dorian is not talking to Bull. In fact, he is evading Bull. He buries himself in the library, and spends his days going through books and manuscripts, and - according to rumors - driving the personnel crazy. Bull doesn't look him up.

Bull does, however, do some soul searching. He knows he's done wrong by not telling Dorian who he really is. Not necessarily because Dorian needs to know of such a thing, but because Dorian would - and did - find out eventually. 

The mage getting angry was not a surprise, of course: apart from Adaar, Leliana, and possibly Varric, Dorian's the only one around who somewhat understands what Ben-Hassrath means, and considering he’s from Tevinter, he was prone to take the news of Bull’s identity badly. And the fact that Bull had been sort of lying by omission about it… well. It didn’t really improve the situation, did it?

Should’ve told him. Should’ve said something that night the mage crawled into his tent during the snowstorm: should've put the cards on the table and face the initial rage, but he didn’t. And that’s the bottom line: he didn’t. He chose not to. And no matter how much he loves to analyze whys and hows, it is meaningless. He has to try and repair the damage he’s done, not only because he genuinely likes Dorian, but also because they have to be able to work together, and he just fucking hates shit like this. He likes to keep his relations clear and simple. So he’s going to fix this - sooner, rather than later, because although letting some time pass is fine, leaving things to fester is not.

Bull is sitting in his room, pondering all this, and trying to figure out the best way to approach the scared mage. He has decided three days are probably enough time to take the worst edge off of Dorian's anger (yet not too long of a time, too long is surely considered an insult), and whatever he's going to do and say, he should do it tomorrow.

He is just wondering if bumping into the mage 'accidentally' on his way to see Leliana would work, when he is interrupted by Adaar, who appears in his room.

He really has to start locking the fucking door.

”Pack your shit,” Adaar says. ”We are going to Redcliffe.”

Bull frowns. ”To Redcliffe? I thought we are heading for Crestwood with Hawke next?”

”Yeah, well, Crestwood will have to wait for a couple of weeks.” Adaar scratches his horn. He looks unhappy. ”I think I am going to have to face a Magister.” Bull gets up from his chair.

”A Magister?”

Adaar sighs. ”Dorian's father sent a letter. Apparently he wants to have a meeting with his unruly son.”

”Okay,” Bull says carefully. His thoughts and emotions are running like wild horses. ”Could be a trap.”

”Of course it could be a trap.” Adaar shrugs. ”Then again, maybe not. There is something funny going on with Dorian's family.”

”And why did you think it's a good idea to bring me?”

”I want to bring another pair of horns with me for shits and giggles. Can you imagine his expression?”

”Aban.”

”Fine.” Adaar crosses his arms. His golden eyes narrow. ”I think this is going to be ugly. Not in a violent sense necessarily, but for Dorian. And when it comes to emotional support, I am as useful as a...” he stops, searches for words. ”I don't know. Like something useless.” He looks Bull. ”Whereas you are good at stuff like that.”

”Ah. Well. Usually, yes. But I am not in Dorian's good graces at the moment, as you know.”

”He'll come around: you're the closest thing to a friend he has around here, and no matter what he's feeling right now, he likes you.”

”Boss - ”

” _He likes you._ He's just mad at you. It'll pass.” Adaar turns around to show that the conversation is over. ”So pack your shit.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A painful meeting with Magister Pavus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for a (too?) long chapter with feeeelings, angs, and sex.
> 
> This chapter beta'd by lovelylovely [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) Thank You so much for your valuable help and guidance! <3

_# Report from Hissrad_

_Accompanying Inquisitor Adaar and Dorian Pavus to Redcliffe, in order to have a meeting with latter’s father, Magister Halward Pavus. The meeting is designated to take place in a local inn called the Gull and Lantern. Purpose of the meeting unclear - presumably family business. Dorian Pavus anxious._

_Potential trap._

 

Bull spins the quill in his fingers, then puts it down: he doesn't have anything else to add at the moment. He'll continue the report once he knows more, and eventually he'll leave it to a dead drop here in the Hinterland Crossroads on their way back.

Surely.

Bull lies down onto his bedroll (the beds in this dwelling addressed to Inquisitor and his men are way too small for him), and stares at the ceiling. He didn't light the lantern yet: the late golden light streaming through the small window is enough. Outside he can hear people moving and talking. Adaar's deep rumble is there: he's inquiring some young-sounding hunter about bear sightings. Dorian has gone Koslun knows where.

The trip has been a pain in the ass from the beginning. After learning that Bull would be joining their small entourage, Dorian was livid. It was only Adaar’s firm and stern insistence at having Bull along that kept the mage from storming away. Dorian didn’t understand why they should drag a Ben-Hassrath spy to a meeting with an Imperial Magister, and he adamantly refused to listen to any words of reason.

_Oh well._

Still... the more Bull thinks about it, the more convinced he is that there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Because no matter how furious the mage may be right now, deep down Bull believes Adaar is right: Dorian does like him, and may need him badly before this whole thing is over.

Adaar retires a couple of hours later. He’s carrying a decent-size barrel of beer in his arms, some sausage links around his neck, and there’s a fabulous crystal grace wreath hanging from his horn. “Ahhh, I see they crowned you,” Bull says, and tries not to laugh. “Very pretty.”

“Shut up.” Adaar sets the barrel on the table and sits down, rolling his massive shoulders. “Damn humans,” he says, but he sounds quite pleased. Bull grins.

“Being Inquisitor comes with certain benefits, I guess. They throwing virgins at you yet?” Adaar rolls his eyes; Bull blinks innocently. “Or are you not interested?”

“Why would I not be interested?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could’ve something to do with this certain pretty little dark-eyed thing…” Adaar throws a sausage at Bull’s face: Bull catches it effortlessly. “Thanks, boss.” He bites into the link (ram meat, not his particular favorite, but hey, he's not going to be picky about it). “You seen Dorian around?”

“No, not since we arrived.” Adaar pulls off his boots and socks, and studies his toes thoughtfully. He'll need to file his claws soon, they're getting pretty long. Nothing like too long claws in tight boots. “You know how he is, he likes to be by himself. I’m sure he’s not far.”

Bull has some beer to rinse the taste of meat from his mouth, and stands up. “Well, I think I’m gonna go and see if i can find him. It’s getting dark.” Adaar chuckles.

“I don’t think he is afraid of dark.”

“He isn’t.” Bull gets a short flashback to the night they separated in the trapper’s hut. “Darkness means nothing to him.”

The night is warm and bright. Groups of people have gathered by fires, chatting away and laughing; someone is playing flute, and there's even a young couple dancing shyly by landmark pole. Ever since the Breach was closed and Inquisition put an end to warring between mages and templars in the area, people have been feeling safer and happier. More alive. Bull watches them with a benevolent smile. It’s nice. He likes seeing people happy. 

They all know the threat remains, of course - but on a pretty night like this it seems distant, and one can't concentrate on upcoming doom every moment of the day. Not if one wants to maintain their sanity. Even in Seheron they had rare instances one could breathe: play a game of cards, sing a stupid song, have a quiet meal and a friendly chat reminiscing Par Vollen. Pretend, if even for a moment, that it was going to be alright.

Bull grunts, and concentrates on the present. There is no sign of Dorian. Nor is there any hint of the mage's sweet scent lingering around. Without any obvious locations to check (library, tavern), he walks across the central area and then around it. Nothing. (A pretty young man winks at him; he responds in kind, but won't stop to flirt, even though he’s tempted.) He heads towards the field right outside the main group of buildings.

Dry silvery crops are swinging slightly in the nightly breeze. Bull proceeds slowly past them, humming a cheerful tune as he goes - and then he sees it: a faint glimmer of light up on the cliff above. Bull makes a face because he remembers what's up there: he swears under his breath, but heads up the path anyway.

Dorian is sitting cross-legged on one of the flat burial stones, his back to Bull. He is immobile, like a statue of marble in his grey-ish outfit; a cluster of tiny twinkling wisps are spinning around him, slowly, randomly, touching him every now and then. He looks like he's surrounded by stars.

Bull stops three, four steps from him, and clears his throat. Dorian opens his eyes - Bull can't see it, but he can feel it.

”So, Adaar brought some sausages and beer if you're interested. It's not that great, they don't know how to make good sausage in these parts, and to be honest the beer kinda sucks too. But you know. You haven't eaten anything, so you probably should.”

Dorian stays still for another moment; then he gets up on his feet in an unnaturally smooth movement, as if lifted, and turns to Bull. Whether his feet are touching the ground, Bull does not know, and he refuses to look.

They stare at each other. Dorian's eyes are sparkling pale silver as the lights keep passing his face. ”I'm not talking to you.”

”Yeah, I know.”

A long silence. Bull is pretty sure he should walk away now, but something is stopping him. He softens his voice to a pleasant rumble he knows Dorian likes: ”Perhaps you could listen to me though?”

Dorian doesn't reply, but he sort of moves his shoulder in a manner that could be a shrug. Bull decides to take that as a yes. He considers for a moment how to set his words. ”I - have no excuse. Really. But I think I didn't tell about the Ben-Hassrath thing because I was afraid you'd get mad at me.”

Dorian's eyes narrow. Bull goes on: ”I should've told you, I chose not to. I made a bad call.” He pauses. ”I'm sorry.”

Nothing. The spinning wisps seem to quicken in the night, glowing brighter - angrier - before dimming down into a soft flicker. Bull tries to ignore them, which is fucking hard because they are creepy, and hypnotic, and there.

”I don't want you to think I kept you in the dark because I was spying on you. Or because of.. you know. Sex. It wasn't about that.”

Dorian swallows. ”What is your rank amongst the Ben-Hassrath, the Iron Bull?”

Bull pauses. He didn't expect that question: he didn't expect Dorian to know about these things. But of course the mage has been doing research, he's always doing research. Bull feels his tongue stick to his palate. It tastes like metal.

”Hissrad.”

Dorian lets out a light chuckle. Then he steps past Bull and heads down the hill, the spirit wisps twinkling like irate fireflies around him.

 

***

 

They enter Redcliffe village on a cloudy afternoon two days later. Dorian leads the way, walking a bit too fast, and hitting his staff to the ground harder than usual with every step. Bull had expected him to slow down once they hit the village border - his courage to fail, perhaps - but Dorian seems determined to go through with this as soon as possible. 

Once they get the first glimpse of the inn, Adaar makes him stop. “Hang on for a moment,” he says. The mage groans.

“Why? We are almost there, why would we stop now?”

Adaar gives him a stern look: “Dorian, I’m saying this with the greatest amount of regard for our friendship - your idea of ‘strategy’ is to jump in the middle of a bunch of demons, swinging your staff around… and that’s not going to happen here. Not on my watch.” Adaar turns to Bull. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ll make the rounds, boss.” Bull glances at the buzzing, excited town’s people staring at them. “He’s probably gotten the word that Inquisition has arrived, but still. Won’t hurt to check the area.”

Dorian collapses on a nearby stone bench - right in the middle, his legs spread so that there is no room for anyone else - and crosses his arms, offended. Adaar pats his head, and squeezes his huge body on the bench as well, forcing the protesting mage towards the edge. Bull hides a smile and heads towards the inn. 

_The Gull and Lantern_ looks quiet - too quiet for Bull’s tastes. His keen eye scours the area before settling on a nearby vendor. Bull knows a talker when he sees one - with the right incentive of course. 

A few minutes and one silver coin later, Bull finds out that all of the inn has been rented out to a wealthy ‘Chantry official’. Or something. Some elderly guy with a funny accent. Apparently he arrived in the middle of the night about a week ago with a small group of guardsmen and a cook, and apart from inn owner no one has personally seen the man, as he’s reclusive and secretive, spending his time locked indoors. 

Bull listens intently as the wheels in his head start to turn.

“So, you know,” the vendor muses, “it _is_ a bit suspicious when you think about it, but the guy seems harmless and pays well, and,” he glances around to be sure no one is listening, “to be honest, I’ll take a slightly odd old man any day over those mages that were swarming here a few months back.”

“Sure you would,” Bull says. He pretends to be interested in some wares the man has on his counter. “Now why don’t you show me what you’re selling here.”

To show his gratitude, Bull purchases a decent-looking knife he doesn’t need (he can give it to Skinner once they’re back in Skyhold; she’ll be delighted to kill some useless _shem_ with it), and returns to Adaar.

“Our Magister has taken over the inn. He has some guards with him.”

“He is not _your_ Magister,” Dorian snaps. The wait has made him even grumpier than before. Bull ignores him.

“So. You wanna go in, boss?”

Adaar sighs. “No. But I guess we’ll have to.”

“We could send a word and have him meet us somewhere else, in the Chantry or - “

Dorian sweeps past them, marching towards _the Gull and Lantern_ with a defiant pout on his face. Bull and Adaar exchange a look, shrug, and follow.

 

***

 

_”Dorian,”_ Magister Pavus says softly.

The first thing Bull notices about the man descending the staircase is how different he is from his son. As far as the looks go, there are definitely similarities - the mouth, the cheekbones, the beautiful posture - but it's the way Halward Pavus moves and _feels_ that sets them apart: he’s stiff, restrained, and serious to the point of sadness. A far cry from his vibrant, flamboyant son.

Dorian lifts his chin. He is shaking a bit, smells of distress. Bull resists the urge to position himself in front of him as a barrier.

”Father.” Dorian casts a cold glance at the sunburst symbol in Magister's outfit. ”By Dumat, you look like a second class cleric. A tad disappointing as far as disguises go.”

Magister Pavus doesn't comment on his son's quip; instead, he turns to Adaar. ”Inquisitor,” he says in his dark, accented voice. He sounds polite enough, but he doesn't bow his head; Adaar, who always nods at people as a casual form of greeting, refrains as well.

”Magister Pavus.”

Bull shifts slightly to make his presence known. Adaar signals at his direction: ”The Iron Bull, mercenary Captain in Inquisition's service.” Tevinter barely glances at him - an unusual reaction: being as big as he is, Bull is used to people staring.

”I apologize for my son.” The man lets out a deep sigh. ”This whole scene you are forced to witness… most unfortunate. I never intended for you to be involved.”

Dorian cuts him off: ”Your son? Your _son?_ ” His voice trembles. ”Do you remember the last words you ever said to me, father?”

”Dorian...”

_”You're no son of mine!”_ Dorian is practically yelling, he waves his arms dramatically as he tends to do. ”Do you _remember_ that?”

”Dorian. Please.”

They begin to argue, or rather, Dorian does, and reluctant Adaar gets dragged in the conversation as well. Bull is listening carefully, all the while keeping a keen eye on the room. 

There is no sign of the armed men the vendor mentioned, neither can he smell them in the immediate area: they must be upstairs, or perhaps back in the kitchen. Frankly, Bull is not too worried about them - the one they should worry about is right in the room with them. After Bull reported Dorian's existence to the Ben-Hassrath, he was promptly sent a short dossier on the young Tevinter's father, describing him as an exceptionally powerful mage, an influential politician, and not a particularly bad man. Bull is really hoping the dossier was correct about the last part. He hates fighting indoors, especially in taverns. Bad experiences and all that.

The hollow spot under his eyepatch begins to ache.

Dorian is getting more and more upset. He spits and hisses, moves around, too scared and restless to stay still. He won't go further than two steps from Bull and Adaar, but at the same time he’s desperately drawn to his father: it’s quite easy to see no matter how hard he fights it.

_He loves him and hates him_ , Bull thinks. _Doesn't trust him, at all._

Funny how Bull can sort of relate.

The talk turns into Dorian's sexual preferences (a shock, surely), and then -

_”You tried to change me.”_

The way Dorian says it gives Bull a pause. He is not sure what the words mean exactly, but hearing how Dorian's voice breaks, and seeing the way his eyes get shiny, Bull suddenly gets a really bad feeling. Adaar, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here, makes a careful comment about something: Dorian explodes into another burst of bitter ranting, and makes it clear he's ready to walk out.

Adaar steps forward. ”This is none of my business, obviously, but since we came this far, why don't you listen to what your father has to say, Dorian.”

Bull is not sure he agrees with this, seeing how distressed Dorian is, but since Adaar's the one with a father, he probably knows better. Halward moves closer as well, makes a slow helpless gesture with his hand.

”I only wanted to hear your voice again. To ask you to forgive me.”

Dorian clicks his tongue. ”So many people begging for my forgiveness lately. How peculiar.” He doesn't look at Bull, but Bull knows whom the line is addressed to, and feels a guilty sting.

”We'll be waiting outside.” Adaar touches Dorian’s arm. ”Call, if you need us.”

Adaar and Bull find a spot by some trees: not close enough to hear the conversation (although Bull wouldn't mind), but close enough to hear if someone raises their voice to an alarming level. Adaar studies the lush foliage dancing in the breeze above them, rubs his Anchor hand. It bothers him sometimes.

”Fuck,” he says.

”Fuck,” Bull confirms.

Dorian appears about half an hour later. He looks a bit shaky, the expression on his face hovering between relief and pain. He has re-freshened his eyeliner, but it's easy to see he's been crying. He steps in front of Adaar, makes an airy gesture. ”As far as I am concerned, our business here is done.”

”You okay?” Bull asks carefully. Dorian won't look at him.

”Absolutely perfect.”

He walks away. Adaar turns to follow him, but Bull stops him. ”I'll be right with you, boss.” Adaar's eyes narrow.

”Where are you going?

”Forgot something at the inn.”

_”Bull.”_

”I'll be right there, boss. Two minutes, max. And no, I'm not going to kill him.” Bull heads towards the Gull and Lantern. Behind him, he can hear Adaar swearing; he's half expecting to hear a stern command to turn back - and he would - but it never comes.

Halward Pavus is sitting in a table, staring into nothingness. He has taken off the fancy white gloves he was wearing earlier, and crossed his hands in front of him. His hands are strong and elegant, just like Dorian's. There's some wine on the table, but he's not drinking.

”Alright,” Bull says in a rough voice he uses with damn difficult people, ”listen up.”

Magister Pavus lifts his eyes. He doesn't look particularly surprised, but he does look annoyed. ”Are you here to fight me?”

”I'm not here to fight you.”

”Good.” Pavus rubs his face. ”You'd lose.”

”Maybe not.”

”What do you want?”

”I just want to tell you something.”

”I hardly need insights from a mercenary captain,” Pavus snaps, and pushes his chin forward, looking so much like his son it makes Bull feel a tad uncomfortable about what he's about to say. He steels himself, and shifts so that he stands straighter, wider, his horns protruding.

”Do you know who I am?”

”Unless your name changed somewhere between the introduction and this moment...”

”No. Do you know who I am?”

The man tilts his head: the first sign of nervousness Bull has seen from him. ”Apparently I do not.”

”I travel with the Inquisition, but as it is, I'm with the Qun.”

Bull's got to give it to him: his expression barely changes. ”I see,” Halward Pavus says in an even voice. He inhales, exhales, leans back a bit. ”Well. In the light of recent developments, I suppose I can understand how your people would be interested in having relations with the Inquisition. Are you with the Beresaad?” He pronounces the word perfectly because of course he does.

”Oh no, nothing as diplomatic as that.” Bull gives a thin smile. ”I'm with the Ben-Hassrath.”

The Tevinter's eyes widen minutely. Bull gives him a thoughtful moment to gather himself; once Bull is sure the other is capable of listening properly again, he continues: ”So, that in mind.” He comes closer, towering above the magister. ”If you ever attempt to hurt Dorian, if you think about it, dream about it... rest assured that I have means to make you regret it.”

Pavus stares at him, as if really seeing him for the first time. It's hard to say what he is thinking: he's looking a bit shocked, definitely, but a trace of sadness still lingers in those steel grey eyes. Bull decides to push it one step further. He bares his teeth: ”As much as you magisters think you’re the shit with your poisons and blood magic crap, you've got nothing on my people. Just something to remember.” He softens his voice, but doesn’t make it any friendlier: ”Do we have an understanding?”

Halward looks down, and spreads his long diamond-crusted fingers on the table, rubs the worn surface. ”Your threats, as impressive as they are, are useless.” He shakes his head. ”Whatever I was planning on doing… to my own son...” He chokes, closes his eyes, as if the thought is too painful to bear. ”It will never happen again.”

Bull hesitates, not sure what to say to this - _great? just see that you mean it?_ \- when Halward speaks again: ”Now tell me why you care so much about this.” Bull shrugs.

”Dorian and I are friends.”

_”Friends.”_ Pavus lets out a chuckle. Bull tsks.

”Jumping to conclusions, Magister?”

”I know my son quite well. He's never made an effort to hide who he is.”

”Too fucking bad, isn't it?”

Magister Pavus pauses, draws a small pattern on the surface of the table; it could be magical, or not. Bull very much hopes it is not. ”Was this all?” 

”Yeah.”

”Well then. Goodbye, Ben-Hassrath.”

_”Goodbye Magister,”_ Bull says in perfect Tevene, and makes a partial turn. There’s something about the man's expression that makes him hesitate though; as if he still has something to say. Bull decides to wait for a short moment, just in case. Halward stares at his palms.

_”Will you look after him?”_

Bull nods. _”Yes.”_

 

***

 

Dorian refuses to talk about his conversation with his father. He refuses to talk, period, which is very unlike him, but he sticks close to Bull and Adaar as they slowly ride towards Skyhold. Both Qunari are chattier than usual, and keep their voices intentionally light and friendly, and their eyes firmly on the mage.

When they camp for the night, Dorian crawls into Bull's tent as soon as it is up. Adaar and Bull have a modest meal (they holler at Dorian asking if he wants some: he doesn't), and after they're done, Bull retires as well.

In the almost-darkness of the tent Bull can see a bedroll set next to his. He can also see that Dorian has stolen his blanket. The mage is immobile, but he is not sleeping.

Bull strips off his leg brace, boots, and harness. He gingerly lifts a corner of his blanket, and when there is no protest, carefully get under it, lying down next to the narrow, warm body waiting for him. Dorian is shivering slightly, but doesn't react otherwise.

”Make light,” Bull says. Dorian tenses up - possibly out of surprise - and for a while it looks like nothing is going to happen. Then there's a dim flash, and a soft luminous orb materializes above their heads. It has the same quality as firelight, which Bull supposes is for his comfort.

Dorian looks so tired: his whole character, usually lively and radiant, seems dimmed, insecure. For a long time he won’t even glance at Bull, but finally he gives up and their gazes meet. Encouraged, Bull turns his body to face the mage completely. He seems to fill the tent with his huge shoulders and horns, and Dorian is forced to look at nowhere else but him. ”I am here,” he says in his deepest voice. Dorian nods. Hoping it is the right thing to do, Bull lifts his arm in an inviting gesture. Dorian refused it once: Bull hopes he won’t again. 

The mage visibly hesitates: frowns, bites his lip - and then he groans and just collapses on Bull. A relieved sigh erupts from his lips.

Bull holds Dorian without a word, feeling overwhelmed and so fiercely protective his hands are almost shaking. He ventures to smooth the silky hair, keeping his touch undemanding and neutral without any sexual undertones. Slowly, slowly Dorian’s jittery body calms down and relaxes. “Sleep,” Bull whispers in his ear. 

Dorian, being Dorian, swears in Tevene, but closes his eyes.

Bull is woken up by a loud cawking of a bird. It’s one of Leliana’s, he’s pretty sure: damn things are always around. Bull blinks for a few moments, and then looks down. 

Dorian is still lying on his chest, wide wake. His face, breathtakingly beautiful, is so close, and he is staring straight at Bull. The early pale light streaming in through the tent’s canvas makes him look softer, serene, but Bull wonders if he actually slept at all.

Bull stays absolutely still. “Morning,” he says. He doesn’t say anything else, giving Dorian room to act or talk instead. Dorian purses his lips, licks them, preparing.

“I - regret you were forced to see me acting in such an unreasonable manner,” he says finally. His voice is slightly husky, probably from all the yelling. Bull arches his brow.

“You sure it was unreasonable?”

“Well. Perhaps not.” Dorian opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “He was planning on using blood magic to change me.”

Bull freezes. Dorian groans. “I’m sorry, I - shouldn’t have said it. You don’t need to know, you don’t want to know, and considering who you are you probably shouldn’t know.” He rubs his face, frustrated. “I just had to tell someone. I’m sorry. Forget about what I said, please. Or if you have to report it - I don’t know, file it under Another Example Of Tevinter Madness, I’m sure your superiors will get a kick out of it.”

Bull takes a couple of calming breaths. His first reaction is to get up, walk out, and ride back to Redcliffe to crush Halward Pavus' skull. But since that is somewhat impractical and there’s a decent chance Dorian might disapprove, he settles for clenching his hands into painfully tight fists. Dorian notices, but doesn’t say anything.

They spend some time in total silence. Bull lets his mind drift, tries to think - and after a while, to his slight shock, he comes to realize that although he still desperately wants to crush some skulls, there's a small tiny part of him that... gets it.

Because in the end the whole issue is about lineage and duty, and he understands that kind of thinking. The Qunari have breeding programs, and although the way it works is different from how the Vints do it, it’s not that different. And duty is just that, duty, and in Par Vollen everyone must perform theirs. 

As for Magister Pavus’ plan to remove an undesirable trait... well. Bull would rather not make any comparisons because the topic gets him itchy under his skin, but (demon-y methods aside) that definitely reminds him of re-education: eliminating a problem, cleaning the mind, all for the good of the Nation and sometimes for the good of the individual. Simple as that.

And yet. As much as Bull understands the reasoning behind Magister’s plan, he also understands with absolute certainty that it is wrong - not just because of the creepy unnatural magical shit which could've left Dorian an empty shell instead of the vibrant beautiful thing that he is, but also because Magister Pavus was trying to force Dorian into a role he does not suit or fucking belong to, which he can't perform. And finally Bull knows it's wrong because he is angry, and he never gets angry without a good reason.

“That’s fucked up,” he says out loud. Dorian scoffs.

“Why, yes, I quite agree.”

“Because there’s nothing about you that should be changed.” Bull sets his hand next to Dorian’s so that the sides of their palms are touching. “You are perfect.”

Dorian looks surprised of all of things, and doesn’t seem to know what to say - and then they hear Adaar moving outside. Dorian snaps out of his mesmerized state, and sits up.

“Well. We should probably get up and make some breakfast.” He arranges his hair, twists his mustache. Bull grins in an impish manner.

“Yeah, but if we wait for a couple of minutes, Inquisitor will make it for us.”

_“I heard that,”_ Adaar rumbles from outside the tent. “Get your useless asses out here.”

 

***

 

Back in Skyhold the first thing they do is get drunk.

Adaar raids the Inquisition’s wine cellar behind Josephine’s back (she is easy to distract these days), and meets Bull and Dorian in an abandoned tower. Dorian doesn’t understand why drink here where it’s cold and dusty, when Inquisitor has perfectly comfortable quarters in his use, but Bull gets it: Adaar finds his rooms too fancy to relax in, and doesn’t quite trust the privacy of it. He’s found Leliana’s birds sitting too many times on the railing of his balcony, staring at him with their beady eyes. That he finds it safer to drink with an actual Qunari spy… well. Something to think about.

Always thinking ahead, Adaar brings some food, water, and a big bucket in case they get too drunk to go out and pee from the battlements - not that it’s likely: Bull never gets drunk enough to lose his ability to function (in his line of work one can’t afford to), and Adaar is the same. Dorian, on the other hand has been carried back to his room more than once.

“To absent parents,” Dorian says, leans back on a pile of abandoned burlap sacks he has chosen as his seat, and raises his bottle. “May they always stay absent.”

“To redheads!” Bull brings a mug full of Maraas-lok to his lips, and breathes in the burning fumes, humming happily. Adaar stares thoughtfully at the partly-collapsed ceiling.

“To me.”

“Way to go Inquisitor.”

They drink and talk about light nonsensical things for an hour or two, until Dorian begins to slur and sway, and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. Bull wraps his arms around his shoulders to keep him upright, and tsks. “Look at this little Vint.”

“He’s doing okay,” Adaar snorts. “He’s been drinking twice as much as you and he’s at least three times smaller.” Bull laughs, and finishes his bottle.

“True, I suppose.” He gathers all the empty bottles into the bucket no one has probably peed in, and eats a couple of small cheese pastries. “These are pretty good. You know, I used to know this really good baker in Ansburg with huge ti- “

_“Inquisitor.”_

The voice, sharp and gravely disappointed, makes them jump. They turn to face Josephine, who is standing in the doorway with blazing eyes and strict look on her flushed face. 

“Fuck,” Dorian says, and begins to giggle helplessly. Bull pokes his side to make him shut up. Adaar clears his throat.

“Ahhh. Ambassador. I - was just - “

“What is the meaning of this?” Josephine points her small finger at the pile of empty bottles gathered into the bucket no one has probably peed in. “Are those Inquisition's bottles?”

“No,” Adaar tries. He is looking awfully sheepish for a man who’s supposed to be the head of a military order. Josephine crosses her arms, purses her lips.

“Well, Inquisitor, I think you are lying.”

Bull stands up on his feet, and throws the snorting mage over his shoulder. “Yeah, you know I think it’s time to take this one to bed, thanks for the nice evening, Inquisitor, good night, see you tomorrow.”

“Traitor,” Adaar hisses through his teeth. Bull winks, bows politely to Josephine who refuses to look at him, and walks out with a surprisingly steady gait. 

The air in the battlements is clear and crisp, and Bull takes a few enjoyable inhales as he goes. Dorian mumbles something - he’s possibly singing - and a passing guard greets them with a wide grin.

“I forgot my boots,” Dorian says in a loud clear voice. Bull stops, and looks down at the feet swinging wildly in front of him. It’s true: there are no shoes, just a pair of pretty dove-grey socks. How Dorian, who is chronically cold, and always complaining to everyone about it, could have taken off his damn boots is beyond Bull, but he has. “I need my boooots,” Dorian whines.

“Fine. Fine - let’s go get your boots.” Bull turns around and heads back to the tower. 

“Good man,” Dorian says.

To Bull’s surprise there is no yelling coming out of the tower. Slightly worried, he slows his steps, and instead of just pushing the door open, he peeks in through a small hole in the cracked door frame.

Adaar is standing in the middle of the room, kissing Josephine. He has lifted her up, holding her gently like a butterfly in his clawed, tattooed hands, and Josephine has wrapped her legs around his waist, and her fingers around his braids. Her own dark wavy hair has fallen down, cascading down to her waist, making her look young, soft, and barely recognizable.

Bull blinks, and turns away, smiling. Fucking _excellent._ “You’re gonna have to get your boots tomorrow, big guy,” he whispers to Dorian, but there is no answer. Dorian has passed out.

 

***

 

Adaar spends three days in Skyhold, mostly in his quarters, before taking off to Crestwood with Hawke. He refuses to take either Dorian or Bull with him: Dorian is still not quite back to his normal self, and Adaar wants Bull, who is the only person in Skyhold who’s aware what went down in Redcliffe, to keep an eye on him.

Bull is initially a bit annoyed by this: not because keeping an eye on Dorian is a chore, but because now he won’t be able to give his superiors first-hand information on the Warden contact. Still, since there’s nothing he can do about it, he takes it all rather philosophically and reminds himself that being left behind is not the worst thing that could happen: Skyhold is not a bad place to be, there’s still loads of information flying around, and the truth is, as much as he enjoys working in the field, the older he gets, the more he likes keeping the missions nice, short, and monthly rather than weekly. 

As far as his designated job to keep an eye on Dorian, that’s easy enough. Apart from his room there are only three places in all of Skyhold where the mage spends his time at: the library, the tavern, and occasionally the garden, if he feels like losing at chess to Commander Cullen. Ever since their return from Redcliffe Dorian has been absent from the tavern and the garden, but Bull makes sure to pass through the library often enough. They greet each other shortly, but don’t really talk - which seems kind of funny, especially after their night of drinking, but that’s just the way it goes. Dorian is quiet and wants to be alone, and Bull is not going to push him.

On the fifth day after their return, Bull is coming back from shield practice with Krem, thinking how he should probably go and take bath because he is damn sweaty, when Dorian stops him in the middle of the yard.

“Excuse me,” Dorian says in a rather annoying tone. He is wearing the same light ivory shirt he was wearing in Val Royeaux, even though the weather is cool, and he smells of delicious musk and bergamot. “Are you, perchance, on your way back to your room?” Bull frowns, suspicious, but the mage's calm, carefully painted eyes are unreadable.

“I could be.”

“Marvelous.” Dorian spins around, and makes a beeline towards the tavern. Bull rolls his eye, but follows.

The moment Bull closes the door of his room, Dorian changes. His arrogance leaves him, and he turns quiet and oddly shy, turning his back at Bull, and pretending to study the fireplace. Bull takes off his boots and harness, wipes his upper body clean with a wet towel, and finally sits on his bed.

He waits.

Dorian thumbs the hem of his tunic, sways.

“I don’t care what you are.” He takes a deep breath, turns to look at Bull, and confronts his gaze. “I don’t care.”

Bull considers. “Alright,” he says.

Dorian begins to strip. Bull is not terribly surprised nor pleased, but it’s hard not to react when Dorian is standing before him in all of his naked glory: after all Bull hasn't seen the mage like this since Val Royeaux, and had almost forgotten how damn gorgeous he is under those ridiculous garments.

“Would you remove your pants and lay down, please?” Dorian doesn’t look at Bull. Bull shakes his head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dorian gives him a side-eye. Bull sighs. “You are so pretty it hurts, but I can’t keep - ”

“Please.” There’s something about his voice, something different. Bull studies him sharply, not sure what to make of this. Dorian steps tentatively by the bed; he smooths his long fingers along the headboard, and hesitates for another moment before sliding onto the mattress. He settles on his back, spreads his arms, and just - submits.

It is as clear as if Dorian had said it out loud. 

Bull stares at the tempting sight before him. His initial surprise is soon replaced by genuine delight, and then by compelling primal urge to just jump he mage and conquer him right then and there. It’s so strong it makes Bull shake a bit - usually he’s good at keeping that side of him in check, but the way it raises his head now is a bit of a shock. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down, and stands up. He wipes his chest with the cold towel once more, then unbuckles his belt, and lets his pants fall. Gently, oh so gently, he takes a light hold of Dorian’s ankles. 

“This okay?” he asks. The mage nods. He still looks shy, but oddly peaceful now. There is no trace of his usual skittish sharpness and defiance, just this strange kind of sweetness. His eyes are dark, his full lips parted, so damn lovely.

Bull spreads his legs, slowly, and settles carefully between them. When there is no protest, he leans down and pulls the mage in his arms. Dorian melts: he turns soft and open, wraps around Bull like a silky constrictor, and Bull watches in awe as his eyes flutter and close - and then he absolutely relaxes, relieved, the way he never has before. 

_”Oh,”_ he sighs. Bull leans down, sucks gently his earlobe.

”That's good, Dorian. That's my good boy.”

It feels right. No pretence, no tension. This is perfect, this is the way it should've been from the beginning.

Now that he is finally allowed, Bull would love to spend some time examining Dorian’s body: check that tiny mole in the back of his neck, lick that old shimmering scar running along his calf, tease him about the crescent-shaped toenail that is way too small; he’d love to lick, rub, chew, and squeeze, appreciate every muscle, every curve, every delicious inch of smooth golden skin… but unfortunately he has no patience for it.

“So beautiful,” Bull mumbles, and sucks a dusky nipple, then another, letting his big tongue roll around the puckered tip. Dorian moans softly. Bull responds with a deep growl, nips the skin with his sharp teeth. “Look at you.” And then he flips Dorian over, and pulls his arms above his head. The mage begins to breathe harder, faster, and it is lovely. He is so soft, so supple, like wax in Bull's hands. Bull brings his palm on Dorian's plump bottom, kneads his cheeks. ”I need to fuck you,” he whispers. “Now. Say yes.” Dorian makes a sound that is close to a sob. Bull bites into his skin again, harder.

“Say yes.”

“Yes.”

Bull pulls out the oil he’s keeping under the bed. Despite his urge he prepares Dorian meticulously, stretching gently his tight opening with his thick fingers: the mage keeps panting and moaning throughout the process, pushing against Bull’s fingers, and rolling his hips. Bull bites his lip and tries to think about other things - food, weather, Rocky’s latest idiotic attempt to create Gaatlok - just to keep himself from grabbing the mage and thrusting into him.

Once happy with his preparations, Bull turns Dorian over again. He licks a long line across the smooth chest. “As much as I love to stare at your ass, I prefer watching your face.”

Dorian looks confused by this statement, but then he blushes and smiles a bit, and Bull grins, pleased. He kisses Dorian’s knee bent over his chest, then the other. “There are so many things I want to do, but right now I need to get inside you.“ He sets his huge hand on Dorian’s heart, looks him in the eye. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Dorian whispers, and stares at Bull, mesmerized. Bull pushes aside the panicky feeling this show of unexpected trust causes in him, and brings the tip of his cock to Dorian’s opening. He is so hard he’s aching; the need to penetrate _something_ is getting so strong he simply can’t ignore it anymore. 

“Relax, Dorian.“

The first time he pushes into Dorian’s body - and this really is the first time he’s properly allowed to - is incredible. It’s such a fucking relief, fulfilment, if there ever was one, even if in the end it only adds to his urge because now he feels like he’s really going to lose it. He wants to thrust all the way, right away, so bad, but he keeps himself under control, and takes it slowly and carefully. He even stops himself a couple of times so as not to get too overwhelmed by the velvety tightness squeezing his dick. It is amazing, just fucking perfect - and the best part is, Dorian enjoys it so much he nearly passes out. ”So good,” Bull slides into him again, and again, deeper and deeper with every patient thrust, ”you feel so fucking good, Dorian. There's my beautiful boy.”

“Harder,” Dorian whispers, “please...“

Bull kisses the sweaty curls on top of Dorian’s head. He wants to give Dorian anything he needs, anything - and yeah, Bull likes it hard, and he knows Dorian likes it hard as well - but he’s not totally convinced this is the right moment to go there. He doesn’t want to take it too far, not now when Dorian is still sensitive and probably in a bad place. “You sure about that?”

_“Har-der,”_ Dorian hisses, attempting to make Bull go faster by pushing against him in a feverish rhythm. Bull forces him immobile, keeps rocking into him painfully slow and steady, torturing himself as much as he does Dorian. The mage groans, frustrated, opens his eyes. _“Fasta vass!_ What’s the point of letting a Qunari fuck you if they don’t do it hard?!”

Bull stops altogether. He studies closely the grumpy, flushed face under him. Dorian rolls his eyes. Bull gives up, chuckles. “Alright. Just tell me to stop if it gets to be too much, okay?” Dorian blinks, nods. Bull touches his cheek. “Tell me what I just told you.” Dorian licks his lower lip. His tongue is shiny, wonderfully pink.

“I’ll tell you to stop if it gets to be too much.”

Bull watches him intently for another moment: then he grabs a good hold of Dorian’s hair, and rams into him so hard he lets out a choked cry. ”You want it like this?”

”Oh - _kaffas_ \- just like that - ”

Neither of them lasts long, and that’s fine. Dorian comes first, wailing weakly and shaking all over, squeezing Bull tightly. Bull reaches his peak mere moments later, gasping as the pleasure erupts in him hot and merciless. He can’t remember if he’s ever come so hard with anyone else as he does with Dorian, if it ever felt quite this intense - even when he was young and less experienced, and all the sensations still had the freshness and keen brightness to them. There’s something about the way their bodies go together, some strange compatibility that seems to make every sensation so much more powerful. That the intensity could be because of some emotional connection, doesn't cross his mind. 

After, they stay immobile for a long while, panting, sweating, and then Bull lifts Dorian on his chest. Dorian reaches and kisses languidly his neck and the line of his jaw; Bull turns his head to avoid any contact between their lips. Dorian stops and hesitates, then retreats, kisses Bull’s chest instead.

Bull pats his back soothingly, apologetically. It’s not that he dislikes kissing: it is just that it’s _intimate_ , and as much as he wants to keep his partners happy, he knows better than to make sex romantic - especially with a friend who's approaching the status of a semi-regular fuck.

Dorian falls asleep on Bull’s chest. He fusses a bit in his sleep, mumbles a word or two, and drools a warm pool of saliva on Bull’s pectorals. Bull watches him, curious and amused, and thinks how easy it is to like him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next stops: Adamant - Halamshiral - Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my apologies, and prepare for angst. <3
> 
> My deepest gratitude goes to [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) who beta'd again, and gave me some great notions (she's so sweet and ah-mazing!), and of course to all my incredible readers. <3

Bull is sitting in the dressing room leading to the baths. As he draws a complicated vitaar on Adaar's grumpy face, he hums an old Qunari tune under his breath, and finds himself thinking about Vasaad. He shouldn't, of course: one should not look for pain when one has an option to not fucking think about it. But preparing for an upcoming siege, doing vitaar for someone after such a long time, and realizing that Inquisitor has the same pale copper skin tone his friend used to, and the same annoying habit of not staying still…

_”Stop moving.”_ Bull grabs Adaar's chin, forces him immobile, and draws wavy red lines across the high cheekbones. ”There.” Bull turns and pretends the color pot needs stirring; his hands are not shaking but it's a close thing. ”I find it amusing you wear traditional patterns,” he says out loud. Adaar shrugs.

”My father drew this on me when I left home. Been wearing it ever since.”

”You know this is a vitaar for _karasten?_ ”

”Yes, he used to be an infantry commander.”

Adaar keeps his voice steady, expressionless. He's well aware of how Bull feels about Tal-Vashoth, knows how Bull used to hunt them down too. Bull wonders if he also knows how the ones from _antaam_ were always the worst: senseless beasts with supreme skill to kill. Terrifying. Still - Adaar's father doesn't really sound like that. Why not, and if he's the only one, is something Bull doesn't want to think about. ”It's a nice vitaar. Looks good on you.”

”More impressive than the pink one _you_ wore to the Western Approach, certainly,” a teasing voice states. They turn to face Dorian, who has appeared by the door carrying a large towel and a ridiculous collection of scented oils and soaps. He's wrapped in simple linen robes, and looks delightful without his usual eyeliner, his hair a carefree mess, and his mustache slightly askew. Bull grins at him.

”Hey, that one was badass.”

”If by badass you mean gaudy, I agree. You looked like a rose in bloom.” The mage steps closer, gives Bull's shoulder a quick fond rub, and lets his gaze lingers on Adaar's already painted torso before turning to Bull. ”Then again, if you aimed for shock effect, I must admit Erimond seemed rather confused for a moment.”

”Very funny, Vint. You here to take a bath?” Bull winks; Dorian clicks his tongue.

”What nonsense, obviously I'm here to get a new focus stone for my staff.”

”Play your cards right, and you might get your staff pol- ”

”Would you two knock it off?” Adaar taps impatiently Bull's arm, taking care to use his normal hand. He never touches anyone with the other one.

”Yeah, yeah, boss.” Bull dips his brush in the pot again, and starts to paint a pattern on Adaar's chin. Or he tries to, but it's hard because Dorian lets his robes fall. He's developed some pretty interesting tan lines during their time in the desert: his left upper arm and face are a couple shades darker than the rest of him, closer to deep bronze rather than his usual warm golden color. Bull eyes him, pleased, and thinks how he very much wants to lick along those lines.

Now that Dorian trusts Bull and is more relaxed about things, they've been having loads of sex: in Bull's room, in Dorian's room, in tents when out in the field, in the library once when everyone else had retired for the night. It's all quite different from his previous experiences, where after scratching the particular itch he just put it neatly behind him and forgot about it - now, the more time they spend together, the more he finds he wants it. Craves for it. It's becoming this slightly obsessive thing, an automatic thing, where he gets semi-hard by just a mere glimpse of Dorian, by the smell of him, the voice of him.

And now this marvelous display of shiny smooth skin right here -

”Bull.”

”Yes, boss. Sorry.”

Bull shifts a bit to make himself more comfortable in his pants, and forces himself to concentrate on the job at hand. Thankfully Dorian disappears in the baths (sauntering seductively like the damn tease that he is), and Bull finishes in a couple of minutes - not exactly rushing it, but doing it faster than usual, and feeling slightly guilty about it: drawing a vitaar is supposedly a sacred thing after all.

Adaar, pleased but eager to get out, thanks him stiffly, and leaves without further ado. He's barely out of the door, when Cole suddenly appears into the room, hunching on the edge of the nearby table. A fucking annoying habit, that.

Cole squints under his hat, staring at the doorway as if Adaar was still there. ”Too bright, I can't see him,” the boy mumbles, ”I wish I could see him.” He pauses, tilts his head towards Bull and looks worried, or like he is listening to something. ”You like being in the dark, but I can see you.”

”Uh-huh.” Bull wipes his brushes to an old cloth, then rinses them in a bowl of water he will dump somewhere safe. He doesn't want anyone to get accidentally poisoned. Cole keeps staring at him.

”Vasaad was angry. He went first because he wanted to fight. Taking point, then points take him, red on his neck. Even if you went in first, there would have been another fight, another time he didn't listen. It wasn't your fault.”

Bull closes his eye. ”Out, kid. Now.”

”But you are in pain.”

”This is not good, I don't need this. Get out.”

”Go see Dorian,” Cole says gently, ”he thinks he smells nice now.” He disappears.

Bull locks the door - as if it would make any damn difference - and heads towards the lavender-scented mist and soft humming flowing from the baths. He needs something nice to concentrate on. Tan lines will do.

 

***

 

”I had a friend,” Bull says. He doesn't know why he brings it up, why he is still thinking about it. Maybe it's because the bath is hot and relaxing, and Dorian is rubbing his bad knee, and it feels like friendship. ”He died. Well - many died, of course, it was a shitty time, but he was…” Bull falls silent. Frustrated, he leans his neck against the rim of the tub: his horns clank against a metal pipe, so he changes his position a bit; he changes Dorian's position too, gathers his limbs, arranges him sideways in his lap. Dorian smiles at this, then purses his lips thoughtfully.

”Are you worried about Adamant?”

”Nah. I mean, not more than usual.” Bull touches Dorian's neck, and lets his fingers glide lower, until he finds a dusky nipple. The mage shivers, but refuses to be distracted this way; he takes Bull's hand in his own, and crosses their fingers, as he tends to do.

”Tell me about your friend.”

”No need, forget about it.”

”Please.”

Bull opens his mouth to say that it's unnecessary, but Dorian has this kind, expecting look on his face, and somehow Bull ends up talking anyway. He goes on to describe how Vasaad used to be funny and carefree before Seheron turned him angry and rash; how he hated mangos and rainy days, and was fascinated by foreign musical instruments; how Bull used to braid his hair, and paint his vitaar. Bull doesn't bring up the way Vasaad died - he gave a detailed account to his superiors once, never again - and Dorian doesn't ask. But as he keeps on chatting, slowly, quietly, he finds himself getting oddly relieved. He loved Vasaad, and the guilt is something he can never explain away, no matter what his logical mind (or Cole) tells him, but this, just talking to Dorian about it, makes him feel better.

”Sounds like you two were close.” Dorian smiles carefully; his eyes look like fogged silver mirrors in the steamy lantern light.

”He was a good friend.”

Dorian presses his forehead against Bull's chest, and stays quiet for a long while. ”I had a friend too,” he says finally. Bull inhales the scent on his hair: water and fresh herbs, green, but not like the jungle.

”Yeah? What was his name?”

”Felix.” The way Dorian says it is so soft, so wistful. Bull has an urge to ask for Felix's last name, but he pushes Hissrad aside, and wraps his arms around the mage, firmly, protectively. Dorian draws his polished finger along Bull's wet pectoral. ”Poor boy caught the blight. I didn't hear from him for the longest time, so I - I assumed he was dead, but I didn't know for sure, you see, until in Redcliffe my father confirmed that he was gone.”

Bull winces: he can't really think of a worse way to go. ”I'm sorry to hear that, Dorian.”

”He was wonderful, his father used to be wonderful too before he...” Dorian closes his eyes. ”Ah well. Such a loss.” He curls up, and presses closer, searching for comfort Bull is more than happy to give. Nothing like shared misery, after all.

 

***

 

Adamant fortress turns out to be a shitty business. In all fairness, Bull expected as much: military operations are always shitty, and this one comes with an army of demons and Grey Wardens. He's not too worried about the demons: as much as he hates them, by now there's certain familiarity to them, they are predictable, business as usual. With wardens Bull doesn't have that much experience with: they are famously good at fighting, but he figures as long as they can be hit with an axe, he'll be okay.

Yes - everything’s going to be okay.

It starts with them bashing in and fighting their way through the fortress, slaughtering demons, and even managing to talk sense into some wardens on the way.

It ends with blood magic, tainted dragon, and Warden Commander Clarel’s death on top of the fortress - and Bull staring in incredulous horror as Adaar, accompanied with Dorian, Cass, Solas, Hawke, and Stroud fall through a thrift and disappear.

Bull freezes for one stunned moment. He feels numb and empty, as if all strength has suddenly left his body - and then his vision goes red, and his blood rushes his vein angry and furious: he lets out a bloodcurdling roar, turns around where he stands, and flies back down to the courtyard.

The situation there is chaotic: minor demons keep popping out of the rift in odd intervals, and people are panicking over the Inquisitor's disappearance. Cullen, who has arrived to the scene now, takes control over the situation in his practical manner; sees that the new demons are being taken care of, makes sure now captured Erimond is kept an eye on. Bull stops about ten feet away from the rift, and stares at it with helpless rage swelling in his stomach. He keeps growling and clenching his fists, and only snaps out of it when a steady hand lands on his arm.

”He'll get them out, Chief.”

Bull slaps the hand away. In this state he can’t be touched - he just can’t be touched, and _Krem should fucking know better_. 

Krem takes a step back, wary. Clearly realizing the state Bull is right now, he leaves all attempts of comfort, all suggestions to concentrate on something else. He simply sits down on the dusty ground by his upset Chief, and shuts up. 

Bull keeps staring at the rift. It's… disturbing. Disturbing and hypnotic: a pulsing golden-green tear in the fabric of the world, leading to the fucking demon dimension. Leading where his friends are. He's fighting the very real urge to jump in himself: his heart is screaming, telling him his companions need him, that he is betraying them by being here, that he is betraying them like he betrayed Vasaad by letting him dash in -

”You know,” Krem says in a dry voice, ”if you jump in, I'll have to follow you, and then I'll have to kill on principle for being an ass.” Bull lets out a low warning growl: Krem doesn’t flinch, he’s used to Qunari growling by now, but he decides to return back to silence. He won’t move his keen copper eyes off Bull though.

Bull begins to pace back and forth, back and forth. As much as he hates to admit it... Krem is right. He can't jump in: he has no way of knowing where he'd land, could be a totally different place from where Adaar ended altogether, and maybe he wouldn't' survive the trip without the Inquisitor in the first place. So he'll wait - he'll be ready when they come back -

He hears Varric hollering a bit further away. ”Don't worry, Tiny. His Inquisitorialness has Hawke with him, and Hawke - ” Varric's voice breaks just a bit, ”Hawke survives anything.”

Bull ignores him. He stops for a moment though, and shakes his massive arms and shoulders to relax his achingly tense muscles. His throat feels so dry: his heart feels like it's lost, like it's not attached to anything inside his chest.

Finally, after what could be a couple of hours or more, the group suddenly appears, as swiftly as they had disappeared: first come Cass and Solas, flying through the rift with a great racket, and before anyone has a chance to even react, the rest of the group appears. Adaar turns swiftly, raises his hand, and the rift closes with the distinctive buzz and pop they've all come to know and love. Bull barely notices this, even less the fact that Straud is missing: all he sees is Dorian's face. The man looks exhausted, but as if lit up inside - maybe it's something Fade does to mages, Bull doesn't know, and doesn't care.

Dorian's head keeps turning, and Bull knows Dorian is looking for him: the thought, as terrible as it is heartwarming, gets him moving finally. He reaches the mage with a few long steps. ”Fuck, you scared me,” he states in a scolding manner, keeping his arms crossed so as not to reveal how his hands are shaking. Dorian laughs.

”Oh, I am perfectly fine, as you can see.” His pretty eyes turn sad. ”But we lost Stroud.” He gives a hesitant pat on Bull's shoulder, studies him. ”How about you? Any injuries?”

”I'm good.” Bull has a burning desire to hug Dorian, but he knows it wouldn't be appreciated in public, so he won't. Besides, there’s still the weird metallic scent of Fade lingering around the mage, and it freaks him out a bit. Bull clears his throat. ”Erimond's captured, and the dragon took off.”

”Alright.” Dorian rubs his face. ”Well, I could really use a drink right about now, I don't care what kind. Let’s see if we can find a tavern or a wine cellar somewhere.”

They stumble slowly across the yard, their arms bumping lightly against each other. On their way they pass Hawke, who's loudly berating Varric for hugging him too hard.

 

***

 

”Were you really not afraid?” Bull asks, as they are lying on their bedrolls later that night. They've taken over a small dusty storage room that smells faintly of grain and honey. It's a tight fit, but at least they have some privacy.

”Not particularly,” Dorian says, and yawns. There's a slight accent to his voice; it pushes through sometimes when he's tired, and Bull, who has always hated it in other Vints, now finds it quite endearing.

”Guess it's different for mages.”

”I suppose. I mean, it was the first time I've been there physically, but there was familiarity to it. As bad as it was.” Dorian snuggles closer, ignoring the fact that Bull reeks, and buries his face into Bull's armpit. ”I was worried about you though.” Bull snorts.

”About me? Come on.” He pulls Dorian on top of himself. Only a few hours away from the battle, he's still riled up and restless, and the worry he was feeling over Dorian and the others has left a gnawing phantom pain in his gut. He is not close to having an episode, but he can feel the tendrils of it lingering by. He smooths Dorian's face, his arms and back, making sure he is there. ”Let's pretend we're somewhere else.”

Dorian looks at him, grins. ”You want to roleplay? Now?”

”No - no. I want you to be you, but I want to be somewhere else.”

Dorian studies him for a moment, seems to understand. ”Very well.” He makes a small gesture with his hand - and then the storage room is gone. Or not gone, it's just not quite so _there_ anymore. Bull finds himself staring at a high sky glimmering with stars: he glances around, shocked, and sees there's miles and miles of sand around them, nothing else. He can hear the wind traveling across the silent moonlit dunes.

”Is this Hissing Wastes?” he whispers, delighted, but also terrified. Dorian laughs.

”Just an illusion of it. I can keep it up for a moment.” He hesitates. ”Or would you rather be somewhere else? Emerald Graves would be lovely, but it's harder with so many details, all the leaves - ”

”Dorian, this is perfect.” Bull closes his eye. He can feel the grains of glassy sand under his hand, the blessedly cool night air of the desert caressing his skin. He knows it's not really there, but it feels real, and that is good enough. His body relaxes a bit. ”Thanks.”

”Anytime.” Dorian's voice soft. He begins to move on top of Bull, slowly, enticingly. ”Would you like me to help you out some more? Get your mind off things?” Bull wraps his arm around the mage's smaller body, flips him on is back. It's incredible - when he looks into Dorian's widened eyes, he can actually see stars reflecting in them.

”Please.”

 

***

 

After Adamant, Inquisition begins to prepare Adaar for the Grand Ball in Halamshiral. They are supposed to prevent - or allow - Empress Celene's imminent assassination: Bull, who has met Celene, wouldn't necessarily mind seeing her gone, but hey, it's not up to him.

Dorian teaches Adaar how to dance ('a fucking pain in the ass'); Vivienne gives him tips about how to behave in Orlesian court ('a fucking waste of time'); and Josephine hires some designers to create suitable uniforms for Inquisitor and his entourage ('fucking ridiculous').

Bull, who would love to join the party - with all the political scheming happening and information available, there's nowhere he'd rather be - is rather disappointed when Adaar tells him he can't go.

”I see how you could be valuable with your spy instincts and your experience with Orlesians,” Adaar says, and throws a couple of letters he finds annoying over his shoulder to a pile of other letter he has found annoying, ”but frankly, Bull, I'd be more at ease without having a Ben-Hassrath snooping over my shoulder. It's gonna be a touchy business.”

Bull makes a face, shows his disapproval for once. ”Alright. Whatever you say, boss.” He pauses. ”I suppose two Qunari would be too much for Orlesian sensibilities anyway.”

Adaar's hand spinning the quill slows down, stops. ”It would, wouldn't it?”

”Pretty sure, boss.”

Adaar stares at him, Bull can almost see the wheels turning behind his narrowed eyes. ”Fine. You're going.” Bull bursts into laughter.

”Thanks, boss.”

”Talk to Josephine about getting an outfit. It's terrible, and you'll hate it - ” Adaar glances at his pants, ”- or not. But in case you do, don't come and complain to me about it, I've had enough of that with Dorian.” Bull perks up.

”You're bringing Dorian?”

”He's a noble, and presumably knows how to behave in court.”

Bull hums. ”Orlesians don't like Vints very much.”

Adaar gives Bull a look. ”Neither do they like the Qunari or elves, what's your point?” He makes an impatient gesture. ”Whatever - I'm busy. Get out.”

Bull glances at the pile of letters on the floor. ”What are those anyway? People asking for favors?” Adaar groans, and draws his clawed hand across his face.

”Invitations. After the word got out that we've been invited to the damn ball, everyone wants us to join their stupid _soirees_ or whatever.”

”Oh my, Inquisitor, we are finally fashionable.”

”Stop sounding like Dorian!”

”Sorry, boss.” Bull gives a considerate smile. ”By the way, speaking of letters… I believe I saw a pile of proposal letters on Josephine's desk. You know. As in marriage.” Adaar's eyes widen.

”What?”

”Didn't she show them to you?”

Adaar swears in a manner Bull doesn't think he's heard since he met a group of drunken surface dwarves in Nevarra a few years back. ”Get your ass to Josephine's and take care of that clothing business before I change my mind about you going!” Bull grins apologetically.

”Sure thing. See you later, boss.”

 

***

 

The first part of the ball turns out to be rather dull. Mostly because Adaar runs around with Cass, Varric, and Solas, and leaves Bull behind with an order to stay put and keep his eye open. Bull parks himself philosophically by the feeding station. He eavesdrops gossiping nobles, chats up the elven servants (he has a hunch at least one of them is Ben-Hassrath), and flirts with a couple of adventurous baronesses that approach him. He gets invited 'for a walk' but refuses politely. He tells himself it's because he's working.

Dorian, who has chosen a spot in the garden, pretends to be slightly drunk and royally bored, as a proper altus should. He visits Bull every now and then; grabs some spicy nuts, smiles, and bumps into his arm 'accidentally'. Bull's hands are itching to pull Dorian close, but in the end he settles for grinning stupidly, hoping no one notices.

After a few hours, the evening finally takes turn to more interesting: things get messy and violent, as they tend to do, and in the end Celene gets assassinated, Grand Duchess Florianne gets killed, Briala is taken away, and Gaspard rules. Which, as far as Bull sees it, is the best outcome. He doesn't trust the man, of course; even if more straightforward than most nobles, Gaspard's a power-hungry brute - but then he's a damn good soldier, and willing to help against Corypheus, and during times like these, that counts.

The situation calms down rather quickly - everyone was expecting someone to get killed tonight after all, so no one is overly scandalized. Gaspard gives a rousing speech, after which the guests get thrown out, the bodies get removed, and the floor cleaned. Bull watches it all from the sidelines, and after Adaar steps outside to balcony to have some fresh air, Bull finally decides to go to Dorian. The mage has retired to the other side of the hall, keeping his distance to the rest of the group: he's leaning casually against the bannister, just as he likes to do in the library in Skyhold, his hips nice and tilted. Bull grins.

”Hey.”

Dorian looks at him over his shoulder. The way he does sometimes when they're having sex. ”Hey.” The calming music Gaspard has ordered the musicians to play streams through the vestibule doors that are now open; Bull steps closer, his mouth suddenly dry.

”Would you dance with me?” He didn't mean to ask it - but the words are out before he knows it. Dorian looks surprised, then delighted and almost embarrassed.

”Oh.” Dorian stands up, touches his hair. ”I - I'd love to. But not here.”

”Yeah, no, not here.” Bull blinks. ”Maybe in the garden where you were? I don't think anyone's there now.”

Dorian is light in Bull's arms, as they swing slowly under the dark trees. The music is faint here, but it doesn't matter: all that matters is Dorian's closeness, the way Dorian looks up at him, shy and flustered. Bull doesn't think anyone's ever looked at him quite like this, and although it makes him feel warm and proud, it is also strange.

A nocturnal bird sings wistfully nearby; the sweet, weakening scent of cooling roses still lingers, although it's late. Dorian sighs, and presses his cheek against Bull's chest. ”Would you mind terribly, if I told you I've never enjoyed dancing as much as I’m enjoying it at this very moment?”

Bull rubs his back. ”That's nice.”

”I mean it.” Dorian voice breaks. Bull hesitates - he gets the weirdest feeling, somehow similar to those premonitions he sometimes got in Seheron, when he was unbeknownst about to enter a dangerous zone: you just knew it in your guts something was going to go wrong. But then - the night is beautiful, the music soothing, and it is so much easier to concentrate on the feel of Dorian in his arms than all the shit he does not want to think about.

“May I have the next dance as well?” Dorian asks softly, as the music stops, and the orchestra starts another tune. Bull smiles.

“Sure thing, big guy.”

 

***

 

When Inquisition returns to Skyhold a good week later, it's almost amusing how everyone seems to heave a collective sigh of relief. They've all come to think the fortress as home, and every time they leave and come back, the feeling of attachment grows stronger. Bull, who's never had a proper home after he left his Tama, is just as happy as everyone else when they ride in through the main gate to meet the cheering crowd and the horns announcing Inquisitor's arrival.

This time, however, there's something special about their homecoming: Adaar and his crew are not only bringing news, gossip, and loot (Dorian has raided some carefully selected items from the Palace's bathrooms), but also a new member to Inquisition: by Imperial order, Celene's court occultist, Lady Morrigan, has joined them as an 'assigned liaison'. Which, Bull suspects, is Gaspard's way of telling her to get lost and stay away from the court.

Morrigan, as it happens, is quite famous, and Bull even has a short briefing on her in his personal files. He knows the woman is a veteran of the Fifth Blight, a friend of Hero of Ferelden and Leliana's, and a comrade in arms to the Arishok himself (who at the time was Sten of Beresaad). There's also a rumor that she can shapeshift into things. What those things are, specifically, Bull is not sure of, and he hasn't approach and asked, because although Morrigan is attractive and interesting, there's something about her that gives him a pause.

First thing in Skyhold, Bull takes a long bath: after that, he retires to his room, and writes an extensive, detailed report to his superiors: predictably, it's a fucking nightmare, and he stays up most of the night working on it. Once ready, he goes to write another report, almost as long but much less detailed, to show Leliana. It is close to dawn, when he finally falls to bed.

 

***

 

Bull sleeps until noon. He has a quick bite in the tavern, checks that things are okay with Krem (they are), and then heads for the rookery to run his secondary report through Nightingale. He finds Leliana standing by her desk, cooing at one of her ravens.

”Greetings, spymaster,” Bull says, and can't help smiling. ”Sorry to interrupt your important conversation there.” Leliana arches her perfect eyebrow in a manner that is not totally humorless, although not as friendly as it could be.

”Good morning, Bull. How are you this morning?”

”Not half bad.” Bull steps closer, sets his papers on Leliana's desk. ”Here's the report I'm about to send. Take a look when you get a chance. As soon as possible, of course, I'd like to get it moving today.”

”This would be about Halamshiral? My, you _are_ effective.” She grins a bit, and suddenly Bull's fingers are itching to pull down the hood on top of her head and reveal the glimmering mass of red strands under it, just to make her look a little less severe - but that's just a silly thought. He'd never touch anyone uninvited, especially someone who could stab him dead in a blink of an eye. Leliana turns, and her cool, unreadable eyes confront his. _Was she always like this?_ Bull wonders.

”We've been getting some good intel from your people lately,” she says. ”I especially appreciated the information regarding the Venatori spy in Hunter Fell.”

”No problem. The less Venatori around, the better.” Bull clears his throat. ”You know, Krem tells me he wants to send the Chargers to tear down the rest of the Adamant fortress, just to be sure there won't be any demons or whatnot lingering around in the future. I think it's a good idea.”

”It's an excellent idea. Why don't you talk to Cullen about it, I'm sure he'd like to offer some of his men to help with that.”

”Sure.”

A rustle of silk on his blind side. Bull freezes, and curses himself for realizing only now they are not alone. He smelled the strange perfume earlier - an aggressive woodsy scent - but he didn't think much of it, since Leliana has a collection of scents she keeps sampling. Although, frankly, this one didn't seem like her style to begin with.

Bull turns, and confronts Morrigan. She's standing partly in the shadows, dark and snake-like, smiling thinly. A beautiful woman - a scary woman, but in a totally different way than Leliana. ”So.” Witch eyes him intensely: she has fucking weird eyes the color of yellow bog water. ”Iron Bull, is it?”

Bull nods, and blinks intentionally: he has no desire for staring contests. ”Lady Morrigan.”

”I've heard of you, my Qunari friend.”

”Yeah?”

Witch chuckles, and draws her long white fingers along the surface of Leliana's desk. ”Oh, yes. You have quite the reputation, there were people in the court that couldn't stop talking about you and your… skills.”

”The Chargers are a good company,” Bull says, playing dumb. ”We've worked for numerous Orlesian nobles with great success.”

”I'm sure. But I was referring to dealings of more intimate nature.” Morrigan flutters her lashes. Bull pauses, takes care to keep his demeanor nonchalant: as much as he loves flirting, he is not going to flirt with this one.

”Word gets around I guess.”

”Call me a fool, but for the longest time I thought that such relations between humans and the Qunari were impossible.” Morrigan laughs brightly. ”Your Arishok convinced me of that, when I was quite taken by him.” Her eyes narrow. ”Apparently he lied.”

Bull bites his lip so as not to smile. The idea that the Arishok, the most stern and devoted man, would ever get intimate with a _bas_ is unlikely, and the idea of him getting intimate with an exceptionally creepy _bas saarebas_ is just plain ridiculous. ”Oh,” Bull says, his voice as neutral as possible.

”Leave him be,” Leliana snorts, sounding a bit too amused for Bull's taste. ”He's afraid of you, and besides, he's seeing someone.”

This gives Bull a pause. Unlike Dorian, he hasn't tried to hide the fact that they are occasionally sleeping together - but he certainly isn't 'seeing someone', is he? ”Excuse me?”

”Ah, yes.” The tip of Morrigan's pale tongue touches her upper lip. ”The pretty little Necromancer? I quite like him. I hear he's not afraid to use his magic, unlike the poor circle mages in these parts. Still - ” she turns to Leliana, ”what did your friend Josephine say about him again?”

”That he could cause a scene standing quietly in the center of an empty room.”

Bull, who hadn't heard that one, scoffs; Morrigan purses her painted lips. ”I suppose one could find such a person entertaining, albeit somewhat exhausting.” She lets her gaze linger on Bull's muscular shoulders. ”Ah well. 'Tis a pity, could've been fun.”

Fun? Bull can’t see how anything involving this woman would be fun. Unless, of course… Bull hesitates. He shouldn't ask - it's intrusive and silly, not to mention damn unlikely, but some things are too important to be left to speculation. 

”Lady Morrigan, I was just wondering.” 

Witch flutters her lashes again. “Yes, my dear Bull?”

”I hear you can shapeshift into things.”

“Indeed, I can.” She tilts her head, looks amused. “Why this sudden interest towards my magical abilities?” Bull shrugs, tries not to feel a hopeful tingle running along his spine.

“Just curious. So what can you turn into?”

“Spiders,” Leliana quips. “And biting bugs.” She has returned to pet her raven again; the bird has closed its eyes, and seems to have fallen asleep.

“You forgot about the bears,” Morrigan notes amiably. Bull sighs. Figures.

“So… no dragons or anything like that?” he asks, barely covering the disappointment. Morrigan turns to look at him, frowns. 

“Dragons? No - not yet, anyway.”

Bull grunts. ”Alright. Well, I better take off here, gotta meet Krem for some shield practice. Nice talking to you.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Morrigan glides in front of him to block his way like a cloud of dark silk, and raises her hand. “Are you trying to tell me that if I could turn into a dragon, you’d be interested?” Her yellow eyes are sparkling. Bull tilts his horns, gives a polite smile.

“Surely there's no point in such musings, mylady, since you can’t. Have a good day.” He bows stiffly, steps past the witch, and heads to the stairs. He can hear Leliana’s giggling all the way down to the library.

 

***

 

Bull hears back from his superiors five days later. It's a pretty general reply, all in all: they ask him to continue keeping an eye on things, pay special attention to anything related with the wardens and Orlesians - and then, in last line, a short notification:

 

_Take care not to get too attached to the mage._

 

Bull stares at the paper for a long moment. He is hoping the letters would change their form, say something else, but of course they won't. They are still there, as is the guilty, worried sting in his chest.

There are two things he picks up from this immediately. First: Ben-Hassrath has someone else within the Inquisition ranks beside himself. (Not a surprise, a standard procedure, rather: he's guessing it's one of the elves, a vendor or a gardener perhaps.) Second: they are right.

Bull groans, and collapses onto his bed. He knows he's getting too close to Dorian. It's not good: it's not _smart_ , and it pisses his superiors off. Sure, they said the same thing about Krem when they figured Bull and him were becoming _kadan_ \- don't get too close, don't get attached - and in the end they let it lie. They haven't' bugged him about Krem in years. But Krem is not an altus: he's insignificant from Qunandar's point of view, whereas Dorian…

Bull rubs his forehead. He gets an annoying flashback of Leliana telling Morrigan how Bull is seeing someone. That is not the kind of thing anyone should be saying, even thinking, about him. It's ridiculous.

Fuck it. Bull crushes the paper into a ball, and throws it to the fireplace: the flames dance higher and brighter for a moment, then shrink again.

He’s too upset to think clearly right now. Later - he'll think about it later.

 

***

 

As it happens, Bull ends up thinking about it the next morning, when he's having a breakfast, and Skinner asks her where his 'boy' is. The Chargers, initially not too happy about him sleeping with Dorian (because they are just as bad as Bull when it comes to mother henning), are now grinning. Winking. Making stupid kissy noises. Bull doesn't say anything, and when he bites into his sandwich, it tastes like ash in his mouth.

He gets to thinking about it again a couple of hours later, when he bumps into Adaar. Inquisitor hands over a book to be delivered for Dorian, and asks if they both will join him later for drinks. Bull mumbles something, considers refusing the book, but takes it anyway, and heads towards the library.

Bull finds Dorian asleep in his big, stuffed chair. The mage has probably been there all night, he does that. The sunlight pouring through the stained glass sparkles on his skin and silky hair, and he looks so young like this, his forehead free of the usual irritated wrinkles, his mouth slightly open, soft and relaxed. Bull feels his chest aching, and he's just quietly setting the book on a nearby table, when Dorian wakes up.

”Bull?”

Bull freezes in the middle of the movement, and looks at him. Dorian's eyes are open, his gaze soft and sleepy, so terrifyingly, openly fond. Bull inhales, exhales, inhales. ”Hello.”

Dorian reaches and - since no one is around to see - takes his hand. He holds it, kisses each and every finger one at a time, and presses his palm against his cheek, warm from the sleep. Bull closes his eye. ”You missed the breakfast.”

”I believe I did.” Dorian kisses Bull's wrist. ”Care to join me for a brunch?”

”Nah, I'm still full. I think I'll go for a little walk.”

Dorian perks up. ”I could go with you if - ”

”That's okay. Go eat. You need that.” He pats Dorian's shoulder. ”I'll see you later.”

The sun is bright and high, as Bull slowly shuffles along some half-forgotten trail branching from the main road leading to the fortress. The spring is well on its way, and the snow has mostly disappeared, except under some steep cliffs and an odd tree; the icy peaks of the mountains are still glimmering like white diamonds, as they have for ages unknown, summer or winter.

Bull walks, and thinks.

This thing with Dorian… is a lovely thing. It's not a _relationship_ , not in a romantic sense, but Bull is honest enough to admit it could become one - that it's on its way becoming one. It's a lovely, sexual, cursedly comfortable thing tainted with friendship and budding emotions, and he enjoys it, needs it, and wants to keep it _so bad_. But he knows - knows - it can never be.

He's acutely aware that he has fucked up. His first mistake, of course, was to sleep with Dorian in the first place. A Tevinter mage - what foolishness. But Dorian was beautiful, and Dorian wanted Bull, so he did. His second mistake was not keeping it a one night stand it should have been: he let it happen again, and then kept at it. He even stopped sleeping with other people, which is… well. He just doesn't do that. His worst mistake though? Insisting, demanding, wanting Dorian to trust him. It would've made sense from a spy's point of view, but the thing is, he didn't crave for it because he is Ben-Hassrath: he craved for it for selfish reasons, for _him_ … and then Dorian, bless him, gives it to him. Notices how Bull is kind and caring, and for a guy like Dorian, who is lonely and abused and craving for affection, it's easy enough to fall for someone like that. Get attached. Get trusting. And, eventually... get hurt because of it.

Bull growls, and punches his fist into a nearby tree trunk so hard his knuckles start bleeding. He should have thought with his head as he always does - or at least used to - instead of his dick and heart. He should've stayed a tool. He always was a tool, he wanted to be a tool: first for the Qun, then for the Inquisition, and Dorian too. A weapon, a dick, not a person. That was fine. That was - enough. There was a weird, terrible freedom in that, and now...

Damn it all. Damn his urges and weakness.

Damn his stupid heart.

 

***

 

Bull returns back to fortress. The afternoon is turning into evening, and long shadows are already stretching across the yard; vendors are packing their things, idle people are heading towards the tavern.

Dorian, predictably, is in the tavern already. He is sitting in the Chargers' table, comparing his mustache with Rocky, and laughing hysterically. The sight makes Bull's whole being shrivel in pain, and he wants nothing more than to join them: sit down, have a drink, maybe try and hold Dorian's hand under the table. Instead, he stops a few steps from them, waits until Dorian sees him - an impish smile - and heads towards the stairs. From the Chargers' reaction he knows Dorian is following.

Inside Bull's room, Dorian presses immediately against Bull's chest, and wraps his arm around him. He makes himself small, as he does when he likes to enjoy their size difference, and sighs happily; his damp, shallow breath is warming and cooling Bull's skin. Bull fights his urge to return the embrace. He pulls away, gently, and smooths the dark, thick hair.

”Hey.”

”Hey,” Dorian replies, and smiles. Such a sweet, fragile thing. They stare at each other for a moment. Bull opens his mouth, and hates himself:

”We need to talk.”

 

***

 

Bull has done so many difficult things in his life. He has seen his squad members slaughtered. He has held a dying little girl outside a burnt village. He has surrended himself to the re-educators.

He has never broke anyone's heart.

He sits down on his bed, pulls Dorian next to him. He looks Dorian in the eye. ”I... care for you.”

Dorian is a smart guy: he gets it immediately. He winces, then sets his face into a polite mask of disinterest with practiced ease of a person who's heard those words too many fucking times. Bull turns away: in that moment he can't look at Dorian, he's too ashamed. But he has to go on: he owes it to the man. He needs to give some assurance that this is not Dorian's fault, because people have the tendency to blame themselves.

”It's pretty clear we are looking for different things here,” he says gently. ”You want, you need, a relationship. I don't do relationships. And considering who - what - we are… I don't want to lead you on. So I believe it would be wrong to keep doing this.”

Dorian stares at him with unblinking eyes. Bull sighs.

”I don't wish to hurt you. I like you, and if I didn't think it was bad for you, I'd love for us to keep having sex. But the thing is, I do think it's bad for you. For us. And if we keep this up, you are going to get hurt worse in the long run.” He touches Dorian's cheek. ”I am sorry.”

Dorian's eyes turn hazy. _”Ah,”_ he says.

The mage gets up in a smooth, swift movement. He walks straight to the door, his relaxed gait no different than usual: he steps outside, and closes the door silently. And then he is gone.

Bull collapses on the bed, and covers his face. He got an arrow to the chest once: he's pretty sure it didn't hurt this bad; he feels like his heart is about to burst, like he can’t breathe, as if Dorian has taken all the air with him as he left the room.

_Shit shit shit._

Bull makes a choked sound, somewhere between a growl and a sob, and presses the bottom of his palm against his good eye to keep the burning tears under his lid where they belong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I always wanted to quote Shakespeare in a summary… mission accomplished, I guess.)
> 
> Tremendous Thank You to [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) who beta'd and helped me sooo much with this chapter. And of course Thank You to all my readers. <3

Bull gives himself one day to wallow in his misery. He sends out a word that he is sick - which no one's buying, because he's never sick - curls up onto his bed, and lets it all hit him: the loss, the guilt, the heartbreak. He knows the only way to really get over something is allowing yourself to feel it.

He studies his pain. Analyzes it, tries to distance it. The emotion, he finds, is slightly different from anything he has experienced before: it keeps hitting him in steady deep waves, sharp and pervasive. It is close to the pain of losing a comrade or a friend. There's a yearning quality to it: he can feel it not only in his heart, but in his body. Bull once had a Ben-Hassrath trainer, a patient elderly man, who told him to always listen to his body - not obey, necessarily, but listen, because although body can be lazy and weak, there is certain wisdom in the flesh. And now his miserable flesh is telling him that something is missing, and it's screaming after it.

Still - in the end it's all meaningless: the pain, the longing, the fact that what he and Dorian had was the most intimate emotional and physical connection he has ever experienced. He's a Qunari, and as a Qunari, there are some things he can never have, some roles he can never perform.

As always in times of crisis, he recites cantos: reminds himself how he has a purpose, and how this imbalance he's experiencing will pass. _The tide rises, the tide falls..._ It calms him down a bit, but it also make him think of Par-Vollen with intense longing. He's missing the certainty, the safety, the absoluteness of the Qun, no matter how alienated from it he might feel after so many years away from home.

He's been a bad Qunari. An excellent spy and enforcer, yes, but a bad Qunari.

He wonders what his Tama would think if she saw him now.

Krem keeps checking on Bull, of course: he tries to lure his Chief with chicken soup, apples, and poultices Stitches has prepared just in case, but Bull has no need for food nor medicine. Sera, always nosey, keeps spying on Bull as well, and every now and then Bull can hear, or rather, sense, Cole moving outside his door, as if unable to decide whether to come in or not.

Bull has an idea why he doesn't: there's no saying _'it wasn't your fault'_ this time around, is there?

Next morning, when Bull finally steps out, there's a heavy mist hanging over the courtyard. It's the kind that makes his leg ache, and does little to improve his mood, but he meets Krem for their morning practice nevertheless. He’s tempted to ask Krem go and fetch the stick (he could use a few good whacks right now), but since he doesn’t want to give the impression that anything is wrong, he settles for regular shield practice. 

They spend an exhausting hour training and yapping at each other: Krem keeps complaining about Bull's shield bashes and harness; Bull criticizes Krem’s reflexes and sloppy footwork. It's all good. Familiar. There's comfort in it. 

Afterwards, Bull has a quick breakfast with his boys. Everyone acts more or less normal, although Stitches inquires how he's feeling. Bull's blunt _fine_ gains a suspicious look, but with that particular tone Stitches knows better than to press the issue further. Dorian is nowhere to be seen, but that's not unusual, because he tends to sleep late. Bull is itching to ask if anyone saw him yesterday and how he looked, but figures the answer would upset him, so he won't. No need to add to the misery. Nothing to be done there anyway.

Once done with the breakfast, Bull drops Adaar some cocoa he bought from Val Royeaux a while back. Inquisitor, who is in an exceptionally good mood and smells faintly of Antivan perfume, requests Bull's opinion on the situation in the Hissing Wastes. He's wondering if they should explore the area further, and during this conversation Dorian's name comes up. It makes Bull immediately think of the illusion Dorian created in Adamant to console him, and the memory, sweet and as useless as the rest of them, is like a knife in the gut.

”What's with that face you just made?” Adaar asks. Bull bites his cheeks. He was going to tell Adaar - but he had sort of hoped he didn't have to tell just yet. Oh well.

”Dorian and I ended our thing.”

One of Inquisitor's eyebrows arches slowly: ”Mutual decision?”

”Mine”

For a moment Adaar looks impossibly uncomfortable. Then, despite usually having the emotional intelligence of a druffalo, he shuts up, and prepares Bull some hot chocolate. He fetches a can of milk he has stashed out in the balcony, and heats it in a small kettle above the fireplace.

”How did he take it?” Adaar asks, as he finally settles beside Bull and offers him a steaming cup. Bull takes a sip: the liquid is bitter and fragrant, and makes his throat burn. There's some brandy in it.

”Calmly.”

”And how are you?”

”Fine.”

”Is there going to be a problem within the team?”

”Not from my part.”

”No, of course not, you're a professional.”

Bull ignores the slight edge to Adaar's voice, and looks into his cup. ”You don't happen to have any _guimauves_ , do you?”

”Fuck you, Bull.”

”It's fine, boss, it's still good. Even when served in this barbarian way.”

Adaar rubs his eyes, sighs. ”I'll have a short talk with Dorian, just to be on the safe side. I do need you two to be able to work together.”

”Thanks, boss.” Bull finishes his hot chocolate, and sets the cup on the table. ”You'll probably find him in the library. That's where he goes when he wants to avoid people.”

”That's where he always goes.”

”True enough.”

Adaar chews the side of his lip. ”Bull, you don't think this was…” he pauses, then shakes his head, irritated. ”Nevermind.”

 

***

 

Whether it's because of something Adaar said, or because of his pride, Dorian soon makes it clear he has no intention of avoiding people at all, thank you very much. He shows up in the tavern later that same day, cool, casual, and dressed in saffron silk robes that make him look like the frigging sun. Bull finds himself surprised and borderline offended by this. Not to mention aroused, but _that_ he pushes firmly aside.

Upon arrival, instead of avoiding Bull, the mage confronts Bull's stare outright. He gives a neutral nod, the kind he'd give to a random acquaintance, sits in a small table by the door, and orders a pitcher of ale. Soon enough Sera joins him: they start talking about whatever, and Dorian won't even glance at the Chargers' table after that.

Bull studies the mage carefully. Dorian looks ostensibly relaxed, even merry. He smiles a lot and laughs out loud, his hands are moving lively as ever. But to Bull's perceptive eye, which has picked liars way better than this one, it's easy to see Dorian's not his usual self. There are dark circles under his eyes, tightness around that lovely mouth. The way his shoulders are set is… wrong. The sight makes Bull's chest ache; makes him want to go and comfort the man. But he can't do that, so he stays put, and tries to concentrate on other things.

He just wishes he couldn't smell the sandalwood and frangipani across the room.

Cole, who is sitting on one of the barrels in the corner, keeps looking from Bull to Dorian, and back again. He won't approach either of them though; it might have something to do with Varric, who is standing by him, talking to him in his soothing baritone. Thank the fuck for small mercies.

”Why's your boy over there, Chief?” Krem asks. He's on his usual spot by Bull's blind side. ”You two having a fight or something?”

”He's not my boy,” Bull states. ”Never was.” Krem's brows knit.

”Did he do something?”

”Who?” Skinner sticks her head in between Bull and Krem, gives a quick, paranoid glance around. ”Someone did something to Chief?” She screeches: _”Was it the Vint?”_

_Damn it._ Bull grabs her bony arm before she gets a chance to bounce towards Dorian - he doesn't dare to think what kind of chaos would ensue if Skinner, who is as blood-thirsty as she is loyal, hit Dorian and Sera's table. ”No. Sit. Shut up. He didn't do anything.”

The elf collapses against Bull's side, and tries to affectionately steal his tankard. Bull slaps her hand. ”Fuck off.” He can sense Krem still staring at him. ”And you, Cremisius, you can fuck off too.”

Krem doesn't, he never does. ”So you two aren’t an item anymore?”

”We were never an item, whatever that means.”

”Okay.”

”We had sex for a while, and now we don't. Not a big deal.”

”Yeah, sure, I hear you.” There's something about the tone of Krem's voice. Something judgemental. Bull turns to look at him.

”What?”

”Oh, nothing. It's just that...” Krem pauses, shrugs. ”It's just that you seemed happy.”

”I'm always happy,” Bull protests, and manages a grin. Krem looks unimpressed.

”No. No, see, you like to present yourself as rowdy and ever-cheerful, but I don't think I'd ever seen you actually happy - ” he nods at Dorian's general direction, ”before the Vint.”

What foolishness. Bull pushes his tankard in front of Skinner (it tastes like ash in his mouth anyway), and gets up. Krem watches silently, as he turns and heads towards the stairs.

He's afraid Dorian will turn and look, but he doesn't.

 

***

 

After a few miserable days, Bull decides the best thing he can do is start sleeping with other people. First of all because there's a decent chance it will make him feel better, and secondly, he wants to create an impression that things are back to normal. And fucking his way through the tavern is his normal.

Even though he's a Qunari - or perhaps because of it - Bull never lacks willing partners: he is friendly and well-liked, and has the reputation of being a considerate lover. The fact that he has a famously big dick doesn't hurt either. Despite this, he's not usually picky, and his modus operandi with sex is practically the same he uses in battle: he goes for the first person approaching. This time around, however, he needs to give it some thought.

He doesn't want to bed any visiting nobles, because he feels it would too on the nose. Mages are out of the question for more reasons he can think of, and now that he's thinking about it, he should probably stay away from males in general. He mulls it over, and after a serious consideration, he settles upon Candy.

As a rule, Bull never uses prostitutes: he doesn't have to. But he and Candy are friendly; have been ever since Bull punched a drunk soldier who called her names, and Bull has come to like her a lot. She's a nice neutral choice, and undeniably fetching with her strawberry blonde locks and a cleavage one immediately wants to bury one's face into. And she always smells of lilacs, which Bull finds pleasant.

”Hey, Candy! You free tonight?” Bull asks, as she is passing the Charger's table on her way to some hopeful-looking scouts. Candy stops, surprised, and tilts her head. Her eyes are about to glide to Dorian's direction - he's sitting in his small table with Varric tonight - but she stops herself, and puts a smile on her face. She's smart like that.

”Sure thing, Bull.”

Dorian is watching now, and Bull is both happy and deeply unhappy about it. Whatever - he won't start tip-toeing around the Vint. ”Great. Let's go.”

 

***

 

”By the way,” Candy says, as she is unlacing her carnation-red dress (it looks fancy, but is actually rather cheap and easy to take off), ”thank you for sending that boy Cole over.”

Bull grins, and kicks his leg brace under the bed. ”Being sarcastic?”

”Hardly.” Candy sets her outfit on the nearby chair, and stretches her arms. She's not wearing any underwear. ”Such a sweet thing.”

”Oh, I could think of other words to describe him.”

Candy sits on the tall bed, and sways her legs: her toenails are painted bright pink, the same color as her fingernails. Her eyes glide slowly over Bull’s shoulders. ”To be honest, I've been sort of curious about you.”

Bull snorts. ”Aw.” He gets up to remove his belt, but stops though, and studies Candy gently.

She is attractive in Bull's eyes, as most people are. Soft. Curvy. Desirable. And _nice_. Someone he should love to bed. But for whatever stupid reason he is not quite... feeling it.

Bull finds himself thinking how her skin, while smooth and deliciously freckled, doesn't quite catch his fancy in the same manner as a darker, golden skin would. How her voice, while perfectly amiable, probably wouldn't form those particular little gasps and whimpers he so much enjoys. How she might not react to his touch with the kind of intensity he is used to nowadays, and how she sure as Void wouldn't stay with him afterwards, and snuggle against his side while mumbling in her sleep.

_Shit._

Bull sits back down. ”Candy - listen.”

Candy raises her hands. ”Bull, it's okay. I was pretty sure you weren't up for it. You had that look.”

”I'm sorry.”

She smiles, studies him with empathetic blue eyes. ”Wanna talk about it?”

”Nah, nothing to talk there. But thanks.”

Candy pulls her clothes back on. She rearranges her hair, adds some color on her lips, and pats Bull's shoulder.

After she's is gone, Bull presses his face into the pillow and breathes in. There is no trace of Dorian's scent lingering here anymore. He’s thankful for it, but a little disappointed all the same.

 

***

 

Next day, the message arrives.

Bull reads it five times, memorizing every word, before heading to Leliana: the message may be addressed to Adaar, and he will be the one to make the ultimate decision, but Bull wants a professional opinion before going to anyone else with this.

”An alliance?” Nightingale raises her narrowed gaze from the paper to Bull. ”What is this nonsense? The Qunari don't make alliances.”

”No,” Bull says. ”We don't. Not usually.”

”And I see they specifically want the Chargers present. Not sure I like that.” Leliana purses her lips, hums. ”Well. I'll see what I can find out. Not much, probably, since it's your people we're talking about here. Meanwhile, share this with Adaar, and see what he says. I'm sure he'll greatly rely on your opinion here.”

Bull sighs. He has an opinion, alright. Unfortunately, his opinion is meaningless, and can't be shared. He leaves Leliana's quarters feeling alarmed and oddly annoyed, and goes looking for Krem.

He finds his lieutenant in the lower court yard, studying some wares in Molly Sims' stall, and ignoring her not so subtle flirting. Bull steps by him, touches his arm.

”Krempuff. Walk with me.”

They shuffle across the sunny yard, until they find a quiet spot under some trees. Bull sits on a worn stone bench, Krem follows his example.

”What is it, Chief?”

Bull scratches the base of his horn. He run out of his good horn balm two days ago, and he's been itchy ever since. ”The Qunari found out about this Red Lyrium smuggling operation in the Storm Coast - it's the Venatori, of course. And it's bad news enough that now my people wish to form an alliance with the Inquisition to get the problem taken care of.”

”Alright,” Krem says carefully.

”Sounds like they want us to wipe out some Venatori camps while they bring in the Dreadnought, I'm not sure about all the details yet.”

Krem's copper eyes widen and begin to glimmer. ”The Dreadnought!” Despite everything Bull feels a smile pulling the side of his mouth. Krem has always been interested in warships, the Qunari kind in particular, but he's never seen one.

”Yeah, well, keeps your pants on. They tell me no army, just you guys. And Adaar with his usual entourage.” Krem studies him.

”You're not happy about this.”

”No. Which is why I am giving you heads up: if Adaar goes for it, I need you to be extra careful.”

Krem swears under his breath. ”You think he will?”

”I think he will.”

 

***

 

Adaar does go for it.

He is openly suspicious and borderline pissed off, but he is also terribly curious, no matter how much he tries to hide it. ”Alright,” he says, squeezing his Anchor hand so hard the green glow pushes through his knuckles. ”Let's do this.”

Bull heads back to Tavern deep in thought. Almost to the door, he's stopped by Cole's voice.

”You think you don't know. But you do.”

Bull turns to look at him. The late sun is casting its slanted beams across the boy's face, usually covered by the shade of his hat. It makes him look softer, alive. Bull gets the weirdest feeling he's seeing him for the first time.

”Know what?” Bull hears his voice say. Cole blinks: his eyes glint like yellow glass.

”Which one you are. But you do know. You are The Iron Bull.”

_”No,”_ Bull says.

”Yes,” Cole says. He presses his long bony finger on Bull's heart. ”Yes, Bull.”

 

***

 

The Storm Coast is rainy as it always is. The Inquisitor and his group travel through the wet terrain slowly, as if unwilling to reach their destination, and everyone's in a horrific mood. Solas is complaining about the Qunari; Varric is complaining about the rocks and hills; Dorian is complaining about the sight of the sea that makes him nauseous. Adaar hasn't said a word since they arrived.

As far as Bull is concerned, the mages should've been left home. Dorian especially: his presence might be seen as an insult - but Adaar insisted, and fine, they do need mages against the Venatori.

This is the first time after their breakup Bull and Dorian are on a mission together, and it's awkward. They are not talking, and they stay as far away from each other than possible: Bull's leading the way, and Dorian is marching in the tail, right before the Chargers who keep following Adaar's party. Bull can still feel his presence though - and hear him. It's hard not to.

At the rendez-vous point they find a dark-haired elf with pale green eyes. He's wearing a beautiful elven armor - Dalish to the untrained eye, but Ben-Hassrath in the way he carries his dagger and in his demeanour. He is grinning widely. Bull freezes, feels a punch of violent joy.

”Gatt!” He steps forward, as if pulled in by a magnet. Were he not wearing _vitaar_ , he'd hug the man. ”By Koslun's horns, it's good to see you,” he sighs, and means it with every fiber of his being. But oh, how he wishes they had sent someone else.

_”Hissrad,”_ Gatt says, his voice ringing with delight. Adaar, who speaks pretty good Qunlat, frowns.

Somewhere behind them Dorian makes a sound, so faint Bull can't be sure of the tone of it.

 

***

 

_”Too much time has passed,”_ Gatt says, as they march along. And: _”I've missed you.”_

Bull bumps him playfully with his elbow, so that he almost falls over: they burst into laughter, and Gatt looks so happy, and Bull loves it. Gatt was an angry abused boy when Bull pulled him out of that dark cargo hold so many years ago, and he grew out to be a bitter young man - seeing him laugh like this is a rare sight. It warms Bull's heart.

Gatt glances at Adaar's entourage, his eyes linger on Dorian, who, typically, hasn’t been able to keep his opinions to himself, or bothered to hide his disdain. _”You shouldn't have brought the bas saarebas.”_

_”Wasn't my decision.”_

_”He's giving me an evil eye.”_ Bull snorts; Gatt's gaze moves, finds Krem. _”The other Vint doesn't seem to like me either.”_

_”What?”_ Bull pushes aside a branch that threatens to get tangled his horns. He remembers the jungles in Seheron: all the stuff he used to find wrapped around his horns after a long day in the bush.

_”Your Lieutenant. He keeps staring at me.”_

_”Yeah?”_ Bull turns to look at Krem, winks. _”Probably jealous.”_ Krem rolls his eyes, but without the usual humor - and now that Bull is looking, all the Chargers seem uncomfortable and worried. He gets it: they’ve never seen their Chief with the other Qunari before, or really heard him speak Qunlat. It must feel weird. 

“Doing okay there, Krem de la Krem?”

The fond moniker makes Krem’s face soften a bit. “Never better, Chief.”

“That’s my boy.”

Gatt clicks his tongue, but doesn’t say anything; Krem’s copper eyes narrow. There’s definitely tension between those two - but then again Bull supposes it’s to be expected. They’re both his first hand men, they both adore him, and trust him. He saved them both and they are both his boys.

They walk in silence for a few moments: Gatt glides like a ghost through the mist and wet ferns. Bull used to envy that skill about him. _“You’ve been gone for too long, Hissrad,”_ he says.

_“I know.”_ Bull looks down and feels guilty for not being sorrier about it.

 

***

 

It's funny - in a manner of speaking - how when you are exposed to enough pain, you stop feeling it for a while. You go numb. Cold.

As Bull is sitting alone on a cliff, heavy rain drumming on his skin and the Qunari helmet he found in one of the chests they looted, he thinks how he has only once in his life felt this detached and indifferent before. It was after Vasaad died. After they all died. But then he had something to fall back to.

Oh. A funny thing about the helmet too. That he should find one now that is not a -

Yeah.

Bull breathes slowly through the cool metal, tries to keep his body still and relaxed. The pain will come: he can feel the the tendrils of it gnawing his insides already, and the madness may come too. But for now all there is is the rain, and the dark abyss he's hanging above.

Krem wanted to sit here with him: maybe out of love, maybe out of obligation or guilt - because oh, there must be guilt. But it wasn't Krem's fault, just like the eye wasn't Krem's fault, but Krem's going to feel bad about it anyway: bad, and offended, because Bull didn't let him sit here.

No one else dared to approach.

So Bull sits here alone, staring at the eternally-moving sea with an unseeing eye. Thinking of the look of pain and betrayal on Gatt’s face; thinking of torn limbs and broken horns, _vitaars_ slowly dissolving in salty water. He wonders if they were young men, if they were Krem's age.

At some point, it may have been minutes or hours, he can't tell, he becomes aware of change. The rain is still falling as it was before - yet there's no tickling sound of droplets hitting against metal of his helmet. No wind, no wetness. Bull looks up, alarmed, and then he sees it: the faint shimmer of barrier around him. And he knows the feel and color of it. It's Dorian's.

Bull almost turns to find out where the damned Vint is, he almost opens his mouth too, angry words already on the tip of his tongue - but then he is feeling so exhausted, and the barrier feels so nice: warm and comforting, almost like an embrace he shouldn't accept but is craving for nevertheless. So he lets it be.

The Iron Bull closes his eye and sits alone, but not abandoned, in the rain that is not allowed to touch him.

 

***

 

”You are not going crazy,” Adaar scoffs on their way to Skyhold. ”And although you may not appreciate this outcome now, you'll be happy about it later.”

“My men are alive,” Bull says, and he thinks of Gatt too, “I am happy.”

”You could look at it as opening a way forward, not closing the way back.”

”You like drinking and singing and breaking beds. You'd already left.”

”You have the Inquisition, you have the Inquisitor... and you have me.”

”Words break in small secret spaces,” Cole whispers. _”He got away. He got away.”_

That makes the pain come, finally, but it's not all bad kind.

 

***

 

Should one wish to be dramatic, one could say Hissrad died at the Storm Coast. Bull, who's more practical than dramatic, knows this is only partly true: there will always be some Hissrad in him - it's all imbedded too deeply in his character and behavior. And that's fine, it is not without merits. For example, he can still easily spot the assassins that appear two weeks after their return to Skyhold. He can easily take them out too.

Two assassins. Two bad assassins. For _him?_ What an insult. Or perhaps a gift, something to be grateful for? Whatever. At least the formalities are now taken care of: he’s officially out, he’s dead to the Qun.

Choosing his men over the Dreadnought had been easy. Living with the consequences of this choice is not. On many days Bull feels lost, and he doesn’t really know who - what - he is anymore. He knows he is not a Qunari, but - maybe it's silly, maybe it's denial - he still doesn't like to think himself as a Tal-Vashoth. The word is tainted with too much blood, too many bad memories, and he is nothing like, refuses to be nothing like, those savages he hunted down in Seheron. (Back then he never questioned the madness of those people, he saw what they were capable of: now that he is out, he wonders if there were some that weren’t crazy and didn’t deserve to die - but he only thinks about it in passing. He’s not strong enough to really handle the idea, not yet.)

So Bull is lost: empty, insecure, in pain. But he is also strong and clever, a survivor, an adapter - and he is not alone: he has the Chargers, and Krem, and his companions in the Inquisition. All the support he needs. And he has the one role the Qun can never take from him: he is The Iron Bull. Hissrad may be out of job, but The Iron Bull still has a duty to perform. He's needed.

Bull needs to be needed.

Apart from spying business, in Skyhold his personal crisis has very little impact. Most residents don't have a clue anything has changed in the first place, so they don’t treat him any different: to them he was always a mere mercenary Captain. Those who knew better are relieved and pleased - and although it's impossible for them to understand the gravity of Bull’s loss, they are doing their best to be sweet and consoling. Even the Chargers, predictably guilt-ridden, appear sheepish and furiously over-protective; Bull, who badly misses them being the mouthy assholes that they are, can’t wait for things to get back to normal.

Things with Dorian aren't really getting anywhere. They still aren't talking, not really: they have been to some missions together, and exchanged a word or two, but it's all been about meaningless things. The friendship they once had is severed, and will probably never the same. Bull accepts this. And he can handle it: he has other friends.

But it doesn't change the sad fact that he misses it. Badly. Dorian is smart and funny, and it used to be such a pleasure to be around him.

One night, while camping in a most beautiful spot in the Emerald Graves, Dorian and Adaar spend almost two hours telling bad jokes about Vints, and Bull, while listening to their kackling from the other side of the camp, feels a sharp sting of loneliness and jealousy. He could go there and join them, but he knows Dorian would stop talking if he did. Or at least he would stop talking in this manner: freely, happily. So Bull won't go.

”You know,” Sera says, and collapses by him, ”you are dumb.”

Bull glances at her. She ignores him, and begins to chew her nail. She spits into the tall grass. ”Dumb,” she repeats.

”Thanks,” Bull says.

”I mean, you're smart. In things. But then you're stupid.” Sera nods her head at Dorian's direction. ”You still like him, right?”

”What are you babbling about?”

”I just told you, didn't I? You like Magister Fancypants. And you're not with those Ben-Assrats anymore.” She spreads her arms in dramatic manner. ”Sooooo...” 

”Magister Fancypants doesn't like me, and that ship has sailed anyway.” Bull keeps his voice soft, but he’s beginning to feel borderline irritated.

”Oh yeah?” Sera spits again. ”Well, if you're too much of a coward to do anything about it just because you screwed up earlier...”

”Yeah, see, I don't think it's a good idea to go after someone who wants nothing to do with you.”

”Sure thing, stupid,” Sera says, jumps up, and disappears into the night.

 

***

 

The realization comes to Bull a week later, when he's walking towards the stables to have a word with Horsemaster Dennet. He sees Dorian grooming a beautiful silver-white Imperial Warmblood in one of the stalls: the mage is concentrated on his job, unaware of anything or anyone else, so on a whim, Bull stops under a nearby tree to watch him.

Dorian is humming a cheerful little Tevinter tune Bull vaguely remembers hearing before; every now and then he talks in Tevene, and the animal pricks up its ears, as if understanding what he's saying.

_”My friend,”_ Dorian whispers, _”my beautiful friend,”_ and Bull thinks how he must miss his countrymen, and how now that he's not talking to Krem - or Bull - anymore, there is no one else around who truly understands what it's like in the Imperium.

Dorian's hands, lovely and so very gentle, smooth the animal's shiny neck, and glide down to rub its legs. He bends down further, checks the hooves...

”You're staring at his ass again,” Blackwall says. He has appeared on Bull's blind side - rather inconsiderate, that. Bull shrugs.

”It's a nice ass.”

Blackwall makes a noncommittal sound. ”You still have a crush on the Vint or something?”

_Not this again._

”Like I said, it's a nice ass.”

”There are other nice asses around. Don't see you staring at them like that.” Blackwall leans forward, steals a glimpse of Bull's face. ”Except that you are not looking at his ass at all, are you?”

It's true. He isn't. He is looking at Dorian's face. The manner he smiles softly and squints in the sun, the enchanting way his full lips form words as they move around the syllables.

Bull feels his heart swelling, and it is right then and there, while watching Dorian's loneliness and kindness, when he understands. It's not a dramatic epiphany, just a calm, languid thought: I love him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :`)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this fic, I was not sure where I was heading, exactly, but I knew how I wanted it to end, and here it is. The end. I am both relieved and sad to let this go.
> 
> Thank You, my patient readers – I so love and appreciate you guys! <3
> 
> Thank You, my beta, amazing [Nessa_T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nessa_T/pseuds/Nessa_T) for all your hard work, suggestions, and great insights. <3
> 
> Thank You, oh-so-talented Vixiak, who created some wonderful art for this chapter. (please check out the link to her tumblr in the end) <3
> 
> And finally, dear [salakavala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala) \- I hope you enjoyed the ride! <3

Bull was never a particularly good Qunari. He knows this. He was always a bit too obstinate and independent, a bit too eager to get involved in things that were none of his concern. He had the darndest tendency to get attached to people.

But even then, he managed to keep himself from doing the most stupid thing of them all: despite living with the _bas_ for so long, he never, ever, fell in love with one.

Until now.

Bull has _loved_ people, of course: his Tama, Vasaad, Krem, and the rest of his Boys. But romance was always such a distant thought to him, that it was both amusing and shameful when he found he could immediately name the odd emotion he experienced while watching Dorian by the stables that day.

Every time he's thinking about Dorian (and he really is thinking about Dorian all the time nowadays), there are feelings there that go way beyond the usual fondness and the oh-so-typical urge to protect those he cares about. There's lust. There's longing. And then there's the stupid way his heart flutters every time he sees the mage. The stubborn pain gnawing his insides.

If he's being perfectly honest, Bull suspects he's been this way for a long time; he just didn't allow it to surface before. And the worst part is, the more time goes by, the more miserable he gets: Bull is pretty sure unrequited love should get weaker, fade away, but weeks pass and turn into months, and he is still as lovesick as before. And damn if he knows what to do about it.

His usual tactic of waiting instead of going after the thing he wants is not going to work here, because Dorian sure as Void won't come to him. But he's not certain how - or if - he should approach the mage, there's never a good time, and he has no right words. So many bridges have been burnt. Yet, he feels he should try. Say... something. Even if the chances are he'd make things worse.

Having no experience on matters of heart, Bull has to admit he's in need of advice. The problem is, he's not quite sure who to turn to: he can't talk to Krem, because Krem doesn't know shit about relationships; Adaar, while in a passionate relationship himself, is awkward and impatient, and would probably kick Bull out as soon as he presented his dilemma. If Bull could choose anyone in the world, he'd talk to his Tama (as clueless about romance as she may be, she was always comforting), but he hasn't had that luxury in years.

But... perhaps Bull could talk to another wise female? Someone who has loved; someone who knows everything about romantic complications, and has overcome them with grace. Someone who, while terrifying, is actually quite fond of Bull.

 

***

 

_”Darling,”_ Vivienne says, and sets a teacup on the polished rosewood table before Bull. ”What can I do for you?”

Bull stares at the cup. It's a fragile little thing: so thin it's almost transparent, and painted with pink flower patterns and bright gold. He takes the cup delicately in his huge hand, and tastes the tea. Rivaini - not as good as red Qunari tea, but he's hardly objective.

”So,” he starts - and then he can't finish the sentence: he feels his mouth getting dry despite the fact that he just had something to drink. Madame de Fer's carefully groomed eyebrow rises.

”I rarely see you speechless, darling.” She offers a dainty lemon-flavored sugar cookie, light as air. ”Do try again.”

Bull spends a ridiculous amount of time chewing the cookie (it's excellent, he's sure): finally he washes it down with a long swig of tea, and sets his cup down. ”Dorian,” he says.

Vivienne leans back, studies Bull with shrewd eyes. She is wearing a rather simple midnight blue silk coat that twinkles silently in the candlelight, and a fashionable butterfly-shaped sapphire headpiece: Bull is sort of disappointed she didn't go for the one that always reminds him on Tamassrans. ”Go on, darling,” she says.

”I am, as they say, fond of him.”

This time both of Madame de Fer's eyebrows rise. ”Dear boy, am I supposed to act surprised here? No - nevermind.” She makes an airy gesture; the cluster of silver bracelets stacked on her wrists jingle. ”What is your issue? You wish to pursue him? Or get over him?”

This, Bull thinks, is why he came to Vivienne: she is cool, formal, sensible, and nothing embarrasses her. ”I wish to pursue him, but I'm not sure if I should.”

”And why shouldn't you?”

”Ma'am, it's complicated.” Bull looks miserable; Vivienne purses her lips.

”I can't claim to be aware of all the turns in your rather _tumultuous_ relationship: stupid things have been done; feelings have been hurt. But whatever decisions you were forced to do while still under the Qun…” she shrugs, ” the situation has changed. You are not what you used to be anymore.”

Bull decides to let his insecurity show: he rubs the base of his horns, shifts on his chair. ”In many ways I am, though.” He sighs. ”Ma'am, the thing about Dorian is, he needs love. He craves for it. And being the way I am, I'm not sure I can give it to him.”

”Nonsense, darling.”

”I feel it'd be like the blind leading the blind.”

Vivienne clicks his tongue, interrupts him. ”I despise this kind of talk: you can learn, surely, you are quite intelligent, and you are excellent at reading people. You'll figure it out.” Her voice softens. ”Bull, we are all clueless in the beginning.”

”Yeah, I suppose.”

”And be that as it may, you are a good man with good intentions. You would take good care of him. Would you not?”

”Always.” Bull hesitates. ”If he let me.”

Madame de Fer eyes him thoughtfully. ”You worry he doesn't like you back.”

”He used to. Now? I doubt it.”

The side of Vivienne's mouth rises minutely. ”And you used to call yourself a spy.”

Bull frowns. ”Ma'am?”

Vivienne doesn't answer: she seems to be lost in thought, reliving some memory perhaps, staring through the walls with a faint smile on her lips. After a while she looks back at Bull though, and blinks. ”You must talk to Dorian as soon as possible.”

”Ma'am - ”

”No, Bull. One always thinks there is time: one is wrong.”

Bull nods, feels sadness for her. ”Yes.”

”Have a word with Inquisitor, see if he'd allow you two to go somewhere nice. Our dear mage is greatly affected by environment, as you know.”

”Somewhere nice,” Bull mumbles. He gets up, bows - and hesitates. ”Ma'am, I wonder.”

”Yes, Bull?” Vivienne is pouring herself another cup of tea; her expression is calm, focused, but her hands are trembling a bit.

”I thought… shouldn't being in love make one happy? Cause I'm feeling pretty damn shitty most of the time.”

Madame de Fer turns to look at him, her dark eyes widen. ”Happy? Oh, darling, no.”

 

***

 

Bull finds Adaar in his quarters, lying on the bed with his long legs hanging over the edge of the mattress. He's surrounded by two crates of beer, a basketful of plums, and three sets of freshly-painted arrows. He's embracing a huge bottle of Maraas-Lok.

”Shokrakar sends her regards!” Adaar beams, lifts the bottle: ”She's the fucking best.”

Bull gives a benevolent grin: after hearing so many stories of the legendary leader of Adaar's kith, he feels quite familiar with her. ”So I see.” Bull studies the hoarde from afar. ”Who painted the arrows?”

Adaar groans. ”Kaariss. He did an awful job - look at this: pink dots? What in the Void was he thinking? But I guess it's the thought that counts.” He glances at the thick pile of scribbled papers set on a stool by the fireplace, and his face turns bleak. ”Still better than the sonnets he sent.”

”What are they about?”

”Nugs, mainly. And hairy eyeballs and cheese, I think, I couldn't really figure them out. It's pretty terrible stuff.”

”Oh.” Bull gives a thoughtful pause. ”Sounds interesting.”

Adaar scoffs. ”No, it really does not.” He squeezes the bottle tighter against his chest, as if someone was planning on stealing it from him, and gives Bull a rather suspicious look. ”So what do you need?”

”I was wondering if you could do me a small favor.”

”You are not getting any of my Maraas-Lok. Well, not until later. I need to cherish this.”

”No, boss. You can keep hugging the bottle.” Bull clears his throat. ”I went and talked to Viv about my situation with Dorian.”

Inquisitor squints, looks intrigued. Bull's pretty sure he's had a drink or two already. ”There's a situation?”

”No. Well - yes.”

”Uh-huh.”

”I mean, I wish to talk to him.”

”See if he's interested in coming back to your bed?”

Bull sighs. ”Something like that.”

”Is this going to get messy again?”

”I hope not. But I need to talk to him. And Vivienne suggested maybe we should go somewhere… nice. I don't know, maybe to Val Royeaux or something? You don't happen to have any reason to send us there, do you? I know we are busy preparing for Arbor Wilds.”

Adaar sighs. ”Actually I am going to visit Val Royeaux in two weeks, I need to speak in this goddamn wedding.”

”A wedding?”

”Don't ask, some damn nobles are getting hitched, and Josephine tells me it's important.”

”Could you take us with you?”

Adaar taps the bottle with his claws. ”I could… but frankly, I think the sooner this gets taken care of, the better.” He gets abruptly up on his feet. ”Follow me.”

 

***

 

When Vivienne suggested 'somewhere nice', Bull is pretty sure she didn't mean the storage room Bull, Dorian, and Adaar drank after their trip to Redcliffe. But here he is.

Bull eyes the cold floor and the caved in ceiling, grimaces a little, then sits carefully on a pile a old mattresses and waits. He is feeling rather stupid and terribly unprepared, but who knows? Maybe things will work out.

After fifteen minutes or so, the door is pulled open, and Dorian is pushed into the room. Adaar's horned head peeks in. ”Sort it out,” he says.

The door is slammed shut, and locked. A lone torch burning on the wall flutters for a moment in the blast, making shadows dance wildly on the walls.

”What is going on here?” Dorian's voice is tight, irritated. He touches the door, his long fingers sparkle. ”Inquisitor must know I can burn this down in blink of an eye, surely?”

Bull opens his mouth, but it takes a moment before the words come to him. ”I told him I'd like us to have a talk, and you know how he jumps at things. This spot is not my idea though.”

Dorian turns swiftly. He's looking tired, and his hair is slightly messy; he's been probably napping in his chair in the library. Adaar waking him up probably didn't improve his mood. ”Talk? Talk about what? What could the two of us possibly have to talk about?”

”I wish to tell you something, and see if we can… reach an understanding.”

Dorian crosses his arms, shields himself. ”But we have a _perfect_ understanding.” His eyes narrow into defiant slits. ”Do we not?”

Silence. Bull stares at Dorian's pretty, indignant face: he can't remember the last time the mage properly looked at him, or talked to him: after weeks of avoidance and ignoring, Dorian's full attention now feels overwhelming, and he's drowning in it. Bull swallows, fights the burning urge to reach and touch.

”I want to be with you,” Bull blurts. Dorian's eyes widen.

”What?”

Bull feels his heart shrinking, his insides turning cold and timid: he's fucked up again, he knows it, and nothing good will come out of this. ”I miss you, Dorian - ”

”How dare you.” Dorian's face twists, his voice trembles. _”How dare you.”_ He makes a fast grabbing gesture with his hand: the door creaks painfully, bends inwards, and collapses on the floor.

He walks out.

Bull covers his face, and lets out a frustrated groan.

 

***

 

The trip to Val Royeaux turns out to be less about the wedding - or so it seems to Bull - and more about Adaar finding an excuse to get out of Skyhold, and away from the Advisors. Of course Inquisitor had been complaining loudly about being forced to participate in the festivities, and he probably could've chosen to go on some regular field mission instead - but in all honesty, traveling leisurely along a good road without need to worry too much about enemies and beasts, is nice for change. Even the weather favors them: ever since they descended from the mountains, the sun has been shining from nearly cloudless sky.

Adaar has brought all his companions, a few of Cullen's soldiers (because Inquisitor must have a proper guard, apparently), and a small wagon for their tents, food, and water. In the tail end of the caravan travels a huge black Asaarash mare, decorated with blue silk ribbons: a wedding gift for the happy couple. Adaar has made it clear to anyone within hearing distance he considers giving such a noble animal to Orlesians a damn waste, and no amount of reasoning can make him think otherwise; whether he'll actually end up giving the horse away is at this point anyone's guess. Varric, in his typical manner, has set up a betting pool, and so far the option of it not happening is winning.

They set up the camp early. After it turns out one of the soldier is an excellent cook, and she can even play flute, the mood improves even further. People gather by the fire, and Varric begins to tell one of his Kirkwall stories: he's missing Hawke terribly, and talking about the Champion seems to ease his misery somewhat.

Bull is sitting by a large rock, a bit further away from everyone. Sera has fallen asleep against his side, so he can't really move, unless he wants a mean jab from a bony elbow between his ribs. He's keeping an eye on everyone though. People seem to be in such a merry mood. Dorian is laughing with the others, genuinely, it seems, and he even joins a drinking song Blackwall starts at some point. He has quite a lovely voice: Bull doesn't think he has ever heard Dorian sing before, and he's kind of hoping the others would shut up, so he could listen to the mage more closely.

He looks so beautiful in the firelight, under the stars.

Bull sighs, and looks away.

Adaar appears from somewhere, collapses on the ground next to Bull. ”I am going to put him in your tent.”

Bull frowns. ”Who? Dorian?”

”Yes, Dorian.” Adaar empties his tankard, sets it on the grass, bottom up. Bull hums.

”I don't think that's a good idea, boss. It's even worse than the one you had about the storage room.”

Adaar tilts his head; bright copper coins he has decorated his horns with, twinkle in the fireglow. ”But you wish to talk to him? Be alone with him?”

”I do, boss. But forcing him - ”

”Here's the thing, Bull: I am sick of this. Awkwardness. It's bad, I can't have it, not with the final battle so near. I need you two to start acting normal again.”

Bull groans. ”I know, I get it.”

”So I am going to put him in your tent, and hopefully you two can work it out.”

”Fine, boss.” Bull makes an attempt to get up. ”Hey could you give me a hand, boss? Be careful though, she bites.”

Adaar grabs Sera, and sets her gently in his lap, where she immediately curls up like a pleased cat searching for heat. _Qunari phwoar_ , she mumbles, and begins to snore. Bull shakes his head, amused, and heads for his tent.

He is almost asleep, when he finally hears Dorian entering. He can see him too, because the mage has conjured an enormous ball of bright white light that could probably wake the dead. Bull very much hopes it won't. He lifts his head.

”Hello.”

”Good night,” Dorian says sharply. He undresses briskly down to his underwear, spreads his bedroll, and lies down. The light goes off.

Bull closes his eye, listens to Dorian's breathing. It feels nice, having him near - even if he is angry. ”Hey Dorian, I'm sorry about this, wasn't my idea.”

”I am not talking to you.”

”Alright.”

Silence. Then: ”You don't want me in your tent?” The voice is deeply offended. Bull rolls his eye in the dark. Damn Vint.

”I do. But I'd never force you here.”

Dorian scoffs - and that's the last thing Bull hears from him that night.

 

***

 

On their third night on the road, Vasaad comes to Bull.

There is no particular reason for it to happen: there had been no battle, no war stories by the fire. Maybe it was triggered by the sound of crickets outside, or some exotic ingredient in Dorian's perfume, whatever. But there he is, standing by Bul's bedroll, staring.

Bull, half-asleep, knows this is not really happening. It is just a trick of his mind. But it doesn't make the sight less terrifying, as he looks at his friend. The arrow is still there: jutting out of Vasaad's throat, as is the ugly mark on his cheekbone where one of the Tal-Vashoth struck him after he had already fallen. Bull made the Tal-Vashoth pay for that. He made them all pay.

_Hey_ , Bull says. He's not sure if he's talking out loud, doesn't matter. He notices how one of Vasaad's braids is coming apart. It's wrong, it shouldn't, Bull always made them nice and tight. It's his fault it's coming apart.

His fault.

Vasaad's mouth opens, and he makes a long wailing inhumane sound.

Bull starts fully awake, gasping for air: his heart is pounding, his body is covered in cold sweat. As he slowly comes to, he realizes there is a light in the tent - a soft, sunny, yellow light this time, and Dorian is crouching over him.

_No._ Bull jerks, backs away until his horns hit the back of the tent. He raises his hand in stern warning in case Dorian tries to approach. The mage looks concerned.

”You screamed.”

Bull leans back as much as he can, his horns scratch and stretch the worn canvas. ”Yeah.”

”A bad memory?”

”...yeah.”

Dorian glances aside to make sure his staff is nearby. Clever boy. Then he looks back at Bull. ”Are you going to be alright?”

”Yes, yes.”

”Can I get you anything?”

”Just get yourself away from me, I don't wish to hurt you.”

The mage laughs. The bright voice clears Bull's head a bit. ”You couldn't hurt me even if you wanted to.” A lie, on so many levels, but Bull lets it go.

Dorian studies him thoughtfully for another moment. ”You know, I am not a Spirit Healer, quite the opposite actually. But I know a trick or two, so if you want, I could cast a Peaceful Aura on you. It might help.”

Bull swallows. His first reaction is to decline - but even through the panicky, anxious haze, he sees the benefit of it. And the thing is, he trusts Dorian, no matter what their relationship. ”Sure. Go ahead. Thanks.”

”Get on your bedroll, please.” The mage's voice is now soft and cool, like water.

Bull obeys. Dorian makes slow gesture - not because he has to, Bull suspects, but just to show that he is doing it - and Bull feels a soothing wave, like warm water, washing over him. His body, so tense just a moment ago, softens and relaxes, his heart settles down a bit. A relieved sigh erupts from his lips. ”Oh, fuck that's good.”

He closes his eye and just lets himself drift. He is half-tempted to ask Dorian to do the thing he did in Adamant: to take him somewhere else, somewhere cold and snowy, as far away from Seheron as possible, Emprise du Lion, perhaps - but that particular illusion is connected with a memory of them having sex. Bull has a hunch Dorian would be uncomfortable with it. And this, this is good, this is enough.

”You are kind,” Bull mumbles, feeling drowsy. Dorian makes a small sound.

”I was never kind.”

_But you are_ , Bull thinks, _so very kind,_ but the words never form because he is already falling asleep.

 

***

 

The next day Bull is still feeling slightly off. When Adaar comments on him being oddly quiet, Bull crumbles something, and retires to the tail of their entourage to spend time with the gift horse. At least she won't bug him with questions or cast judgemental glances.

Bull notices Dorian watching from afar, but the mage won't approach. Not that Bull expected him to.

In the afternoon they stop by a village. The place is so small it doesn't even have a tavern, but Adaar sends the soldier who can cook to see if they could buy some milk and sausages. When she returns half an hour later, pushing a huge wheelbarrow filled with cider, sausages, apples, and some fresh bread, Adaar declares this is the perfect time to set up a camp for tonight. They aren't in a hurry after all.

Bull has a quick glass of cider by himself, and decides to go for a walk: no one's going to need him anyway. He strolls lazily along a narrow path leading towards tall trees. Once he reaches the edge of forest, he stops to listen to birds for a moment - an old habit, and a good one. The birds right by him are quiet, but further away he can hear them singing. So far so good.

He follows the path under the lush branches. The golden afternoon sun is twinkling through the leaves, alternating with emerald green shadows, as he goes. Ever since last night he's been cold: the kind of cold that can't be removed with a warm blanket or hot wine, but the sun feels pleasant on his skin, even if could never penetrate deep enough.

A flash in the corner of his eye, a reflection of metal. Bull comes to full stop: his hand has found his axe before he's even thinking about it, and he turns sharply -

\- to see Dorian's staff standing in the middle of a small opening. It is not leaning against anything, just hovering there in a rather eerie manner, its silverite inlays glimmering.

Bull lets out a relieved sigh, and relaxes his shoulder. He puts away his axe too. Then he heads towards the opening, keeping his step light.

Dorian is lying in tall grass, his eyes closed. The déjà vu Bull experiences is so strong it makes his breath catch.

The first time he ever saw the mage, all those months ago, was in a moonlit meadow. The Dorian he met then was weak and exhausted, surrounded by dead enemies. The Dorian Bull sees now is vibrant and beautiful, half asleep in the blessedly warm sun.

Dorian opens his eyes. There are no stars reflecting in them this time: just the sky that makes them glow metallic blue. He looks straight up at Bull, cool, serene.

Bull takes a deep breath. ”Do you want me to go and never come back?”

”Yes.”

Bull nods, turns around. Dorian's voice stops him: ”No.” Bull sways, looks at him over his shoulder.

”Make up your mind, Vint.”

”Ah. But look who's talking.”

Fair enough. He deserved that. ”May I sit?”

Dorian shrugs; Bull decides to take that as a yes. He leans down, and positions himself on his side in the grass, taking care not to twist his injured leg. Then he closes his eye for a moment. A gentle breeze caresses his bare chest, Dorian's scent lingers near.

”You broke my heart,” Dorian says. Bull feels a sharp sting of guilt. The mage fiddles a small flower growing by his thigh. ”You made me trust you. And then you broke my heart.”

”Yes.” Bull would like to add something to that, something to make it sounds better, less severe - but then that would be lying, wouldn't it? Because he did break Dorian's heart, knowingly, and that's all there is to it.

The mage sighs. ”It was my own fault in the end, of course. I should have known better.”

”No reason for self-flagellation, Dorian.” Bull bites his lip. ”I am good at what I do. Well - at what I did.”

Dorian looks curious. ”I've been wondering. Did you leave me because the Qun told you to?”

Bull thinks about it for a moment. ”They… weren't happy about us. But the decision was mine. I felt it was my duty to let you go, because what we had could never be.”

”To let me go! What a delightful way to put it. But I suppose I've been left for less important things than duty and doubt.”

”Stop it.”

Dorian tilts his head, his mouth tightens. ”What do you want, the Iron Bull?”

Bull turns to look straight at Dorian finally. He is tempted to preen, to show his muscles, and say something clever and manipulative as he often does - but he won't. ”I told you. I want you.” Dorian smiles, way too sweetly.

”You're not getting enough sex from serving girls and adventurous nobles?”

”I would, if I wanted to. But I don't want to, because they are not you. And I am not talking about sex.”

Silence. Bull sighs, softens his voice: ”I know you think I'm a liar, and I used to be, about many things. But I am capable of truth, and the truth is, I miss you. I regret what I did, and I am sorry.”

”Ah.”Dorian's expression doesn't change much: he's good at keeping his mask on when he really wants to. But his eyes seem darker and shinier than a moment ago. ”An apology. You think that's enough?”

”I have no idea. But it's all I have.”

Dorian stretches his arm above his head; his shirt rises, and reveals a delicious strip of golden brown skin. There's something defiant about him now. ”And you think I still want you?”

Bull studies him intently. ”You do. Whether you choose to obey your desire… I am not sure.”

Another long silence. A cloud floats in front of the sun, and dims the colors for a moment; it passes quickly though, and soon the world is flaming again in bright greens and golds. Dorian's graceful hands rise, caress the grass above him. Sapphires in his fingers sparkle.

”You've lost a lot,” he says. ”Maybe you think I can fill the emptiness in you.” He pauses. ”But I can't.” Bull shakes his head.

”It's not that, Dorian. At all.”

Dorian frowns. ”What is it, then?”

”Love. I love you.”

Dorian's jaw drops. Bull is expecting a burst of rage, or a sarcastic scoff, maybe even a twitch of pain - instead the mage's face turns delightful tone of red. His lips tremble, as if he's trying to say something, and then he buries his face into his hands.

Bull reacts instinctively and immediately: he makes a low soothing sound, and his hands reach for the mage, ready to touch and calm down - but Dorian is faster: he slams into Bull almost violently, wraps his limbs around him, and bursts into tears.

_”You idiot! You stupid, stupid lummox!”_

Bull closes the smaller man in his arms without a word. They hold each other for the longest time, absolutely still, like two statues carved into an eternal embrace. Not daring to move from fear the other will disappear. Bull is breathing in the intoxicating scent of Dorian's hair.

Is this really happening? How many times has he imagined this?

”I've missed you,” Dorian mumbles against Bull's skin, his voice thick with tears. ”Maker help me.” And then he reaches and grabs Bull's horns.

Next thing Bull knows Dorian's mouth is pressing on his lips, and although this is something he has been thinking about a lot within the last few months, been hoping for it, yearning for it - now that it's actually happening, he just... freezes. Dorian backs off immediately, studies him with concerned eyes.

”Did I do wrong?”

”No, no.” Bull swallows, his head is spinning, and he can't think straight. ”I'm sorry.”

Dorian's lips apart, they look plump, soft, and painfully delicious. He is breathing fast and shallow. ”May I kiss you? Finally?”

Bull nods, speechless, and Dorian takes his face carefully between his hands. ”Come on,” Dorian whispers, and leans closer. ”Come on now.”

His head falls forward, slowly, slowly, and finally his lips brush against Bull's. The touch is light, almost not there. For a moment they both stop breathing. Then Dorian's mouth returns, heavenly, silky, and sets sweetly against Bull's; charmed and encouraged, Bull lets out a deep rumble, wraps his massive hand gently around Dorian's skull, and pulls him closer.

The mage moans, and opens up immediately. Bull, who has been somewhat in control until now, feels like he is drowning: Dorian is moving his mouth slow and tender, and Bull, absolutely dazed, responds in the same manner. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and soon their kisses begin to turn deep, frantic and hungry. Their tongues find each other and tangle, as a burning desire pools in Bull's stomach.

When Bull came after Dorian, he wasn't planning on having sex. He only wished to talk. But there is no lying about it: he misses sex, _their sex_ , and it's damn hard to think about anything else now that Dorian is sucking his tongue, and grinding against him. Bull's hands begin to move all over Dorian's body with clear purpose, and his cock, already fully erect, starts to ache.

”I want you, fuck me,” Dorian pants in his mouth, ”now.”

Bull growls, and flips the mage on his belly in the grass. He doesn't think he's ever undressed himself so fast. It's all so hectic and feverish, and he can't get his hands on the globes of Dorian's ass soon enough: he prepares the mage carefully though, he'd never hurry with that part - and then he is already gliding into the blissful warmth and softness. The relief is so great he almost comes right then and there.

”Dorian,” he mumbles. He finds Dorian's hand, doesn't let go, and buries his face into his lover's neck. ”Dorian,” he repeats, and thinks how it is the most beautiful name he has ever known.The mage moans under him.

”Bull - now, Bull, please - ”

There is no point prolonging this: they have both waited enough, and they can take it slow another time. Bull growls, pins the mage flat all the way to the ground, and finishes with few powerful, teeth shattering thrusts.

As the waves of shattering orgasm crush through him, he can hear Dorian gasp, as if in awe, and then cry out of pleasure.

 

***

 

Afterwards, they are holding hands, and staring at the brilliant blue sky. Dorian has crawled on Bull's chest, and he's lying there peacefully with his back against Bull's wide pectorals, and his legs resting between Bull's thighs. 

Bull’s free hand travels slowly along Dorian’s dark shimmering skin; every now and then it finds something worth closer examination: a scar, a nipple ring, a joint - so fragile under his big hand. Bull smiles, and thinks how perhaps ma'am got it wrong, about love not making one happy. Because at this very moment, he can't remember ever being happier. But maybe she was talking about unrequited love; or maybe she meant that love is rarely simple. Bull lets out a silent sigh. This love certainly won't be simple - or at least the circumstances surrounding it won't. No matter. Whatever life may throw at them, they'll figure it out.

”I do love you,” Bull says, his voice deep with affection. Dorian blinks lazily.

”Good. Because I love you too.”

”We're going to make this work, Dorian.”

Dorian goes quiet, but then he smiles: a wide, bright, beautiful thing, that makes Bull's heart tremble. ”Yes.” Bull kisses Dorian's temple: it feels smooth and slightly damp under his lips.

”So… wanna make out?”

”We just had two rounds of sex.”

Bull scratches his side: his claws leave a row of faint red marks on the grey skin. ”Is that a no?”

Dorian turns, so that they are facing each other. ”Probably not.”

”You are damn beautiful,” Bull says. Dorian grins: he looks like a young boy with his messed up hair and swollen lips. Bull, predictably, can't resist this, and reaches for a kiss; his hands glides to cup Dorian's bottom again. He kneads the smooth skin, and growls softly. Then he pulls away, and studies the mage tenderly again. ”You know... when I first met you. Out there in the woods. I thought to myself, this is the last damn thing I need.”

Dorian's eyes narrow into laughing silver crescents. ”And was I?”

”Turned out you are the only thing I need.”

”Disgustingly mushy and hopelessly unrealistic,” Dorian mumbles, and leans in to plant a kiss on his beloved's mouth. Bull smiles into it.

 

***

 

As they're walking back to the camp, Bull keeps holding his hand on the small of Dorian's back. He is unwilling to break the physical contact now that he is allowed to it, and to his joy, Dorian doesn't shy away from the touch.

”You sure you don't mind the others seeing us together like this?” Bull asks. Dorian frowns.

”I am not ashamed.”

Bull feels his heart warming, and pecks the top of Dorian's head. No point trying to hide it anyway: anyone who bothers to take a look at them can tell what they've been up to. Their clothing is wrinkled, Dorian's hair and mustache are a mess, and he has a huge dark love bite on the side of his neck.

Adaar is standing by the gift horse, braiding it's glorious mane. He glances at the approaching couple, and his eyebrow rises slowly. ”Uh-huh,” he says.

”Hi, boss.” Bull places himself in front of Dorian, as if to protect him from potential smirks and curious glances. Adaar wipes his nose.

”Had a nice walk?”

”Sure, boss.”

”Alright.” Adaar pulls a long silk ribbon from his pocket, and starts to form it into a bow. Bull clears his throat.

”If you've got nothing special for us, we'd like to retire to my tent for the rest of the day.” Dorian groans, and slaps his arm, hard.

”No problem.” Inquisitor attaches the bow on top of the horses head. ”Do me a favor and use those wards that silence all noises, would you?” Dorian's cheeks flash beet read, he nods. As they are stepping towards the tent, Adaar's voice still reaches them: ”This is good.”

Bull turns to look at him, grins. ”The best, boss. The best.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art above created by Vixiak - go check out her tumblr, you'll be happy you did!  
> http://vixiak.tumblr.com/


End file.
